


A Place Not Far Away

by luninosity



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Apples, Autumn, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Festivals, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Light Dom/sub, Love Confessions, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Pumpkins, Rain, Romantic Fluff, Spanking, Writer!Sebastian, very mild brief breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26165797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: It's time for the Evans Family Farm annual Harvest Festival. Sebastian's here to do a story about it. Chris Evans, like apple cider, is delicious.
Relationships: Chris Evans/Sebastian Stan
Comments: 357
Kudos: 383





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't actually written pure fluff in ages! Let's see how this goes. *laughs* It's rated M for now because I know there's a sex scene but I'm not sure how explicit it'll get - might change the rating to E once I write that part; we'll see!
> 
> Title from Oasis' "Songbird," this time. It was going to be "Talk Tonight" ("...all your dreams are made / of strawberry lemonade...") but I swear I've used that already, though I couldn't recall where! But that's on the soundtrack for this story too.
> 
> I'm fairly sure there're seven chapters - I have three written, and I have an outline! - but it's me, so, no guarantees. Updates...hopefully weekly-ish? Depending on how fast I write the rest. :p

“He’s early!”

The panic in his brother’s voice snags Chris’s attention. He tries to spin around and run that way and not drop the hand-painted sign he’s carrying, which means that, in rapid succession, the sign hits his toes, he nearly trips over a photogenically filled barrel of apples, he flails arms around to catch some flying fruit, and he says a word that the visiting reporter from New York City should definitely not hear him say.

He yells, “Why is he early?” His toes throb.

“I don’t know!” Scott drops out of the lower branches of the giant oak, rustling foliage. Decorative twinkly lights swing, having just been placed, but thankfully don’t fall. “I’m not an expert in telepathic communication with sexy New York reporters!”

“Don’t call him sexy!”

“Why not? He is. I Googled him. Hot _and_ smart. And also here. Now.”

“He’s a professional,” Chris grumbles, “and so are we. Act like it.” He glares at the sign—it proclaims _Corn Maze This Way!_ in buoyant yellow and red lettering—and then at his younger brother. Neither target seems bothered. “Anyway, he probably doesn’t even want to be here. On assignment. For his big-name magazine. From New York.”

“Bro, you make it sound like we’re small-town farmers.”

“We _are_ small-town farmers. Or everyone else is, anyway. I’m…never mind.” He eyes his boot. The dirt beneath it. The memories.

Sunshine the color of New England autumn stretches over his shoulders, honey and pumpkin and cream. Orchards and wooden carts and antique pressing machines sprawl out along the low hill; the world’s decorated in sunflowers and piled-up knobby gourds and the drift of cider through the air. The afternoon’s low and sweet as drying hay and cinnamon sugar. The Harvest Festival officially opens tomorrow, the Evans Family Farm has hosted seasonal delight with roaring success for multiple generations, and award-winning travel reporter Sebastian Stan’s here to do a story on them.

And it’s not Chris’s story. Not really, anyway.

Unless the reporter wants _that_ story. His gut twists. Could be the case. If that’s the angle. Has been before, though not for a few years.

“Stop that.” Scott punches him in the bicep, not too lightly. “You’re one of us now. I know you know that, so quit thinking you’re not. You’ve memorized the history and brewed your own harvest ale and fucking learned woodworking. No one _cares_ about whatever ancient hit teen movies you might’ve been in.”

“Thanks.”

“You know what I mean. Now come be friendly to the nice and definitely sexy reporter.” Scott pauses, head on one side. “Maybe I’m his type. Or maybe _you’re_ his type. If he’s into the whole beards and flannel and muscles thing. He _is_ into guys; he talked about being bisexual in that whole LGBTQ travel highlights series.”

“I’m not going to sleep with a reporter!”

“What if he wants to?”

“Scott…” Chris gives up. Besides, he’s grateful almost beyond words: Scott’s standing there grinning at him, hands casually in pockets, hair dyed extra-gold by the sun, and Chris feels like the words might be true, like he might belong here, like the past doesn’t matter and the present’s full of affection and freshly-picked blackberries and laughing unserious possibilities.

He says, “Where is he?”

“Saw his car coming up the drive, so…by now…parked in the visitor lot?”

“Why are we still _talking_ —”

They run that direction. The reporter’s no doubt looking around, taking everything in, all the details they haven’t quite finished because they’d thought they’d have the last couple hours of the day, the signs that aren’t up yet and the unfilled baskets sitting on the porch of the main shop and the wobbly second step—

They slow down, panting, just before rounding the corner. Chris runs hands through his hair, cringes at his own sweat and dirt-scuffs and beard he’d meant to trim decently before the following day—his hair’s getting too long, he needs a haircut—

For a split second, a half-second, he doesn’t exactly miss Hollywood stylists; the snap of emotion kicks him in the stomach. He hasn’t been that teenage star for over two decades, and he _doesn’t_ miss it, not the stress and the pressure and the expectations and the performance, constant performance, on and off set, but—

But what, he thinks; and shakes the thought away inside his head. He likes himself these days, mostly, most days. He’s not performing for anyone. Absolutely not just because the big-city reporter no doubt prefers stylish fashion and up-to-the-minute trends and people without a smudge of apple farm on one rolled-up shirt-sleeve.

He makes his heart-rate calm down a little. Some breathing. Breathing’s nice.

Scott peeks around the General Store’s cheerfully old-fashioned wooden corner. “He’s just standing there.”

“Not trying to look at anything?”

“I mean…he’s looking around, but…”

Chris elbows his brother out of the way. Peeks for himself. And feels arrows of undiluted gold thump into his chest.

Sebastian Stan the reporter is indeed there, leaning against his car—compact and practical but a luscious deep red—and framed by colorful tree-leaves and wooden fences, and he’s made of infinite legs and fluffy soft dark hair and sharp cheekbones and an elegant jawline. He’s wearing skinny jeans that cling to every inch of length, plus a blue knit sweater and a black leather jacket, and Chris can’t quite make out the color of his eyes but just then Sebastian tips his face up to the sun, basking in it, rays falling over his face, and Chris outright makes a sound.

It’s not just the beauty. It’s the openness, the ease, the way Sebastian had glanced around with not hostility but real interest, and then decided to drink in and appreciate the sunshine like a happy kitten.

A glorious long-legged kitten. With a lean waist and strong thighs that Chris’s hands ache to pet.

“Well,” Scott says, with what must be the maximum amount of smugness seven words can hold, “guess we know he’s _your_ type.”

Chris opens his mouth to tell his brother exactly what to do to himself with an ear of corn, but freezes. Sebastian’s glanced their way. Must’ve heard a noise. Might’ve heard Scott. Which is never a good thing.

Fuck. And other expletives. Okay. They’ll just have to…walk over there. Say hi. Apologize and beg for mercy, depending on how much Sebastian’s overheard.

At this point Chris’s brain decides to play a high-speed daydream involving himself on his back, those fantastic legs straddling him, and his own voice begging for mercy. Fuck, again. He bangs his head against the wood of the building, gently.

Sebastian, evidently having decided not to pursue the noise, has taken out a notebook. Is jotting something down. About the scents of cider and pumpkins, nutmeg and falling leaves and October ground? About the size and shape of the store, the barn, a tractor, some hay bales?

Sebastian pauses. Looks up and around, smiles, scribbles something else.

Chris takes a deep breath. He doesn’t know why Sebastian’s a day early; he wants to find out. He ought to find out.

He hadn’t spent his childhood here the way Scott had, the way his cousins had. He hadn’t grown up here among orchards and traditions and homemade pies and picking time. But he knows the family loves him, knows his mother plus the farm’s whole artistic commune of woodworkers and weavers and occasional historical re-enactors all love him. He _does_ belong here, because he cares, because he tries hard, because they’ve given him a home and never asked much about why he'd needed that.

So he’ll protect them. Not a question. After all, it’s not like he hasn’t dealt with reporters before.

Even if this one’s drop-dead gorgeous. Happy to be here, or at least smiling while writing. Competent, at least judging by the taking of notes. Which ticks off pretty much every one of Chris’s personal check-boxes, and then some. Fuck.

He squares his shoulders. He steps out from behind the General Store. Lets the lowering sun and the apple trees and the corn maze guard his back.

Sebastian Stan looks up and sees him approaching, and that smile grows: wider, crinkling the edges of his eyes, apparently genuine. Sebastian’s eyes are blue, Chris realizes, though they’re the sort of blue that’s nearly grey, cool and smoky and shimmery as magic and mist.

“Hi,” Sebastian offers, holding out a hand—the notebook’s disappeared, also like magic—and standing up more, no longer leaning like idle temptation against his car. “Sorry, I should’ve called, I just got in early and had some time and thought it’d be a good idea to come see your place before the actual festival starts and the crowds descend? I didn’t mean to interrupt. Oh, shit, sorry, I’m Sebastian. Sebastian Stan. From—”

“From _Wanderlust_ ,” Chris says weakly. Sebastian Stan has the world’s best voice, low and warm and soothing, with little hints of stories around the edges, obviously New York but every once in a while a flickering glimpse of something else behind that. And Sebastian forgets to introduce himself and then swears about it, which warms Chris’s profanity-loving heart and maybe nudges just a couple of his dirty-talk buttons too. “I know who you are. I mean. Um. I’ve read your stuff. Your articles! Some. A few. And we emailed? Or Scott emailed you, but I was there too.” Oh god.

He shoves his hand that way. “I’m Chris? Evans.”

Sebastian takes his hand. Sebastian’s fingers are long and firm, and they feel just right meeting Chris’s own.

And it must be Chris’s imagination that says Sebastian’s holding on a little too long, lingering, with a flick of blue-grey gaze down at their hands and Chris’s grip on him. Must be.

“Nice to meet you,” Sebastian says. “Chris Evans.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian helps out a little, and appreciates Chris a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for some Seb POV! :-)

Sebastian might be in love.

Not literally, of course. Or maybe. Because he’s driven out to a country farm in Massachusetts and he’s surrounded by an oasis of autumn and a pulse of pleasure, evident in every inhale of crisp apple-scented air and every tenderly hand-painted sign. The Evans Family Farm celebrates autumn with pumpkin-pie enthusiasm, and Sebastian can’t not smile.

Chris Evans’ hand is large and warm and strong, holding his. That makes Sebastian want to smile too, or possibly to drop to both knees and nuzzle his face against Chris’s jeans with shameless eagerness.

Chris Evans is tall and broad-shouldered and the instant embodiment of everything Sebastian’s ever wanted in a partner. Chris is solid and elemental, dark-bearded and fuzzy, hair a little mussed from wind, muscles wrapped in worn jeans and red cozy flannel, a hint of tattoo-ink showing along his collarbone; Chris is also endearingly earnest and honest in every babbling word, and he’s welcomed Sebastian’s disruption rather than shouting or demanding departure.

Chris knows who he is. Has read some of his articles. A tingle skitters down Sebastian’s spine, rapid-footed and golden as the sun.

He wants Chris to keep holding his hand. He wants Chris to approve of him. He wants Chris to like him.

Fuck. No. Being professional. He can do that. He’s paid to do that. Readers, and he’s got a lot of them, depend on him to do that.

He clears his throat. Pretends not to miss the sensation of Chris’s hand, the crackling electricity. “Sorry again about showing up early. I really just wanted to get a sense of this place before the crowds tomorrow. I can go.”

“Don’t—” Chris blushes. Pink washes over tiny golden freckles. Sebastian wants to lick each one. “I mean, you’re already here. You might as well, um, see some of it now? If you wanted?”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“Well…we’re a little busy, finishing up some stuff, but…you’re here to write about us, right? And if it’ll help…”

“I don’t want to get in your way—”

“Maybe I could show you the—”

“What if I helped with—”

They stumble over each other’s words and stop, looking at each other, simply looking, as the October sun slides lower. Chris Evans has beautiful eyes, framed by thick dark lashes: a deeper more saturated blue than Sebastian’s own pale sleet.

He does know who Chris Evans is. Or who Chris used to be. Sebastian does his research—part of what makes him a good travel reporter, diving into people and locations and local culture—but in Chris’s case he’d barely needed to.

Chris Evans, former actor, teen idol. Star of projects like _Dream Date, Not Another High School Movie, Heavenly Eyes, Shove,_ and _The End of the Game_. Raunchy teen comedies, a romance, an attempt or two at action and superhero blockbusters. He’d left Hollywood without explanation—rumor said everything from drugs to disillusionment—after the generally mediocre reviews of _The Terrific Trio_ , had come home, and had put his heart and his money into the family farm.

Sebastian hasn’t seen all of Chris’s movies. But he’s seen a lot of them. He’s always thought that Chris Evans was a better actor than the material he’d been given. A good sense of timing, line delivery, commitment to each role, no matter what the role might ask him to do with a banana.

And now Chris is standing in front of him like some sort of harvest god, dirt-smudged and hardworking and powerful and real. Sebastian licks his lips. Involuntarily, he’d swear.

“You’d do that? Helping out?” Chris’s eyes take him in, looking him up and down. Sebastian’s wits, being looked at by Chris, promptly scatter.

Being looked at by Chris, being evaluated by Chris, maybe being touched by Chris…being pinned down by Chris, pinned down and kissed hard and claimed and wanted, with the scent of apples in the air and the scrape of hay at his back, oh fuck yes…

No. Dammit. The weight of his notebook, in his jacket pocket, tugs at him pointedly.

“I mean, um.” Chris bites a lip, flushes more pink. “You’re not exactly…dressed for…I mean, at least you’ve got boots on, but, um.”

Oh. Chris is judging his outfit. And his ability to help a local farm get ready for a harvest festival. Sebastian crosses arms. “I may not be a hearty homespun lumberjack, but I can carry heavy things. And I’m good at following directions.”

Only _slightly_ bratty. Oh, well: Chris’s expression’s worth it.

“Um,” Chris says, giving in. “Okay? It’s not all that much, just making sure all the signs’re up and putting out some baskets of corn and stuff. We could kind of walk around while I do that, and I could show you some things?”

“Sounds good.” It does. “Can I ask you some questions? Just about this place, the history, what a typical day’s like, when you’re not prepping for a seasonal onslaught.”

Chris laughs. His expression had tightened briefly, but relaxes now, more open. “Sure. Scott’s probably even better at that, but…” He glances around. “Think my brother’s abandoned us.”

Sebastian, who does not mind being left alone with Chris Evans, says, “That’s fine, I’m awesome company,” mostly a joke because in fact he’s a giant nerd who once had a complete fanboy meltdown about getting to visit NASA, and he’s always overly excited about books and fantasy and outer space, and he in no way deserves to actually flirt with someone as generous and kind and genuine as Chris.

But Chris grins and says, “Already _way_ more awesome than my brother.” And Sebastian’s heart does a weird fluttery twirl like it’s learning ballet, despite the shout of “Hey!” from behind the General Store.

They head out into the farm, Chris in the lead, together.

Sun slants long and lazy across Sebastian’s shoulders and streaks gold into Chris’s hair, over Chris’s flannel-clad shoulders. The packed dirt’s comfortable and friendly under his boots, and everywhere he looks autumn dances: displays of colorful gourds, hanging acorns and wheat-sheaves, signs for the small restaurant’s chili and apple pies and pumpkin butter. The sky arches blue above russet and green and brown leaves and branches, and two small tractors sit tucked up next to each other discussing tomorrow’s hayrides, and the whole scene’s so heartfelt that Sebastian forgets to take a step and has to run to catch up.

He does love it. He loves all of it: the excitement, the moment poised to welcome guests, the colors and the scents and the real tangible history and delight.

It’s why he loves his job. He gets to travel around the world and find the places that other people love, and he gets to help share that love with everybody who wants to read about it and experience it back at home. He’s always liked discoveries, explorations, stories, and bringing those stories to everyone; he likes connections, the human and personal, the recommendations about secret dark-fantasy-themed nightclubs in Los Angeles or gay bars in Spain or quirky offbeat fashion shows in New York or cozy local mountain lodges in Colorado. Or harvest festivals and apple orchards and a gorgeous superhero of a man with large hands and a tendency to welcome even unexpected guests.

Chris tells him about the General Store’s bounty of homemade cinnamon apple butter and blackberry preserves and hand-carved animals and books on local history as they walk; Chris tells him about the farmers’ market and the woodworking shop and the artists who’ll be opening up stalls tomorrow, while collecting tall wooden signs that’ll help direct visitors. Sebastian promptly takes _U-Pick Blackberry Groves!_ and _Apple Cider Pressing,_ hopes his clothing’ll forgive him, and also hopes Chris is noticing and appreciating his ability to carry large pieces of navigational wood.

Chris is. Or at least those big blue eyes linger, as Sebastian hands over _Apple Cider Pressing_ to be put in its appropriate spot. Might be Sebastian’s own desires having daydreams, but Chris seems to be watching the motion of arms, the movement of Sebastian’s body.

Sebastian, trying hard to be professional, asks how many people work the farm, and whether they’re all family. He hasn’t seen anyone not an Evans brother, and he’s curious.

Chris lights up. “Everybody’s family! Not, like, all related, but some of them’re Mom’s friends, some of the historical reenactors come from Scott’s local theater group, some of them just need jobs, but everyone’s here because they love this place and the community. I’m not actually even sure how many people we have now. Um, most of them have probably gone home for today, since they’ll be in early tomorrow, or else they’re up at the main house—my mom’s house. Well, the family house. Oh, shit, those barrels’re in the wrong place, hang on, let me move them.”

“You all live here, then?” Sebastian’s skinny jeans and leather jacket are in fact not the most flexible attire for lifting barrels. He’ll make it work.

“Yeah…mostly.” Chris doesn’t quite meet his eyes, picking up another barrel. “Everyone’s welcome at Mom’s. Scott actually moved out for a while—this’s only part-time for him, he does a lot of work with the community theater, organizing, acting, teaching kids—but then he had kind of a bad break-up, and the guy kept the apartment, so. We got Scott.”

“Oh, rough. The break-up part, not moving in with family, I mean. I’ve been there. Not fun.” Dirt on his hands. On his second-favorite leather jacket. Maybe it’ll wash off. He can’t not pitch in, though. Chris had judged his clothing earlier, and anyway Sebastian’s never been able to simply stand around and watch someone else working to make a beloved event happen.

Well. Maybe he could watch Chris Evans’ biceps working. Just for a little while.

He adds, “At least your family’s around, so that has to help,” and Chris laughs briefly and says, “Yeah,” while staring at barrels.

Sebastian understands. Chris had needed to come home, to come here, once before too.

He doesn’t ask—Chris has carefully not volunteered that tidbit about himself, which means that’s none of Sebastian’s business—but he does shift questions to, “So tell me about your Harvest Festival. It’s a tradition, right?”

And Chris looks surprised, and then smiles. His shoulders ease a fraction. “Yeah. For like seventy years. There’ll be pumpkin-tossing and pie-eating contests and live music, and you totally need to try our homemade hard cider…”

Sebastian would try just about anything to earn that smile again. Under autumn light, hands gesturing, explaining family traditions, Chris Evans is radiantly alive.

He helps Chris put out a few more signs, puts some decorative corn in baskets, follows along while Chris pointing out the orchards and fields, the antique tractors, the white sturdy frames of the converted farmhouses that hold family in various configurations, the rustic wood of the General Store and Lisa’s Kitchen. He commits details to memory.

He’ll write up his notes back at the hotel. Though he might not need them: Chris talking, Chris being big and passionate and exuberant, etches every syllable into Sebastian’s heart.

Chris _is_ everything he’s always looked for. Compassionate, devoted to family, enthusiastic. Strong in a tender way, as if those muscles could toss Sebastian into bed and give him the pounding of his life but then cuddle him and help clean up after. All of Sebastian would very much like all of that, thank you.

Chris is more or less his subject. An interview. For this assignment. There’s no actual rule about this situation, but it feels unfair: Sebastian’ll be leaving, Chris will be staying, it might be a fun night or two but can’t be anything more. Besides, he doesn’t even know whether Chris likes guys; as far as he can recall, younger celebrity Chris had only ever been romantically linked with girls.

He realizes that his brain’s just tried to consider the possibility of _something more_ , and _that_ thunderbolt hits hard enough that he trips over a tree root, stumbles, and windmills arms frantically to stay upright.

Chris catches him. Which means they’re face to face, beneath the branches of a giant oak.

The wind skitters in to discuss this development with rustling leaves, overhead. A branch bobs up and down.

Chris’s hands grip Sebastian like the embodiment of steadiness, firm and warm even through layers. Chris’s eyes are bright with sudden concern, checking to make sure Sebastian’s okay, and all that hot blue focus sinks into Sebastian’s chest and stomach and other places, leaving him lightheaded.

He wants to be Chris’s. He wants Chris to catch him when he falls.

It’s visceral, instant, a lightning bolt. He feels his lips part, a breath.

“Gotta watch out for the trees,” Chris says, “they’re sneaky bastards, y’know,” and he’s teasing, he’s making jokes about trees, he _can’t_ be flirting; but he also hasn’t let go, holding onto Sebastian’s shoulders as if needing to ensure they’re safe.

“So you’re saying,” Sebastian manages feebly, “I should warn visitors about your asshole foliage, got it,” and Chris laughs and lets him go. Sebastian’s equilibrium doesn’t return, though, because everything in him yearns to get those hands back on him, on his skin.

He walks with Chris back to the main entrance and the visitor parking and his car, and he makes arrangements to come back at eight-thirty in the morning, before the stampede floods in at nine. He barely hears his own words; he’s too aware of Chris’s presence, large and kind and not-quite-subtly checking for more duplicitous tree roots, right beside him.

He wants. Oh god he wants.

Right there beside his car, Chris puts out a hand, and Sebastian for a wild moment thinks Chris might want to kiss him, might cup Sebastian’s cheek or curl that hand around the back of his head or tangle fingers into his hair and draw him in, and Sebastian would go willingly, would fling arms around Chris and pull him close, car warm at his back, himself captured between a sun-warmed door and Chris’s strength—

Chris brushes something from Sebastian’s left shoulder. A twig. Dust. His expression’s rueful. “Sorry about that. Thanks for helping out, by the way. Kinda forgot to say so.”

“No problem,” Sebastian says, “I liked helping you,” and can’t not think about other situations in which he might help Chris out. Preferably on his knees. Relieving some tension. Watching Chris’s eyes get more intense and more blue, giving directions, full of praise and care. “Um. I’m just. Going to go. Type up some notes. I’ll see you in the morning. Here. Again.”

“Right here,” Chris says, like a promise, like a certainty: himself in Sebastian’s future. “I’ll see you then.”

Sebastian does not whimper aloud, and instead gets into his car and aims it in the direction of his hotel, where he will set about doing his job and getting a good night’s sleep.

He glances at the rearview mirror. Can’t resist.

Chris is leaning on the gate, hands shoved into pockets. He hasn’t moved away, a tall broad shape in snug flannel, limned by sunset and apples and the hand-painted signs of family tradition. Chris could’ve chosen to turn, to go, to find his brother or the family house; Chris has stayed to watch Sebastian drive away.

Sebastian knows what he personally wants that to mean. But that doesn’t make it true.

Chris could just as easily be making sure the inquisitive reporter’s honestly gone for the night. Or checking on the condition of the gate. Or inspecting the parking lot’s dirt and gravel. Or a whole host of other festival-related chores Sebastian would never think of.

So he doesn’t know. And he exhales, and then follows the tree-lined curving road for a couple of miles, to the rustic-chic country inn with the abundance of apples and pumpkins and squash and autumn leaves twining gold and bronze along stair-rails and wooden posts. The scent of butternut squash soup wraps around him like a hug; he’d meant to go up and type up his notes, but finds himself drawn into the inn’s restaurant, where he ends up flipping through his notebook amid curls of steam from a hot bowl and fresh-baked bread, along with what the beaming waiter tells him is a locally crafted hazelnut ale.

It’s good. Everything’s good. The world, maybe, is also good: calm and contented, paws tucked in, heart-warm.

Sebastian, who spends most of his life on the road, does love travel. Adventure. Discovery. But his New York apartment’s still pretty bare, because while he brings home hand-knitted rainbow scarves or hand-tooled leather journals, he never has much time to unpack. Bags and boxes. Empty walls. A bookshelf, his sofa, his television, gathering dust.

He’s always laughed about it. The life of a travel writer, well regarded and in demand; award-winning, even, praised by readers and critics alike. Young and footloose and having fun.

He _is_ having fun. He knows he is. He’s said as much over dinners and drinks with friends, more than once. He’s meant it when saying so.

Thinking back, he can’t recall having had time for any of those long laughing conversations lately. Maybe a few months. Maybe more. Brunch with Will had been before Iceland, which had been in February, and—surely not _that_ long.

He tries to come up with a counterargument for a while. Has to admit that, yes, it probably _has_ been that long.

He toys with bread, breaks off a bit, feels the freshness and the crumbs: here and present and delicious.

After dinner he wanders up to his room, regards framed pressed leaves and vine-patterned blankets with affection—the thematic dedication’s impressive—and peels off his jacket and jeans, wincing at smudges. At least most of it brushes off.

Most. No wonder Chris isn’t impressed by him. No wonder Chris had been surreptitiously making sure their walk back to the car was free of any obstacles. Sebastian trips over tree roots and somehow got a leaf _inside_ his right boot.

He changes into sweatpants and an old Rutgers shirt, and settles in on the bed with his laptop and notebook and a mug of coffee. The air’s chilly in a good way, a hint of oncoming fall, swooping grey weather just over the horizon. Imminence and enchantment. Witches and spells. Electricity on the horizon.

Electricity. Like the catch of his breath at the touch of Chris Evans’ hands.

Branches wave in dusky gold and russet encouragement beyond his window, tugged by wind. Sebastian, on impulse, waves back.

He checks his email. Not too much, not unexpected. A message or two from his editor at _Wanderlust_. Reimbursement for that trip to Atlanta. A note asking him to think seriously about the proposed book project, turning some of his articles into a loose narrative, somewhere between a memoir and travel diaries, journeys connected by love and exploration. Charles has a friend in publishing and Sebastian’s got a large readership and a few awards; a book, Charles hints unsubtly, would sell well.

He’s thought about it. He’s not opposed to the idea. He likes being a writer; he likes sharing stories.

He’s not sure there’s a narrative. Enough to hang a book on. Himself? Wandering around places? Just being happy to soak them all in?

Himself feeling the joy of every new experience—and then going back to a hotel room to write, and moving on? Himself and the apartment he doesn’t spend enough time in and the people he meets for a weekend, a week, before he’s gone?

People, he thinks. Like Chris Evans.

He’s seeing Chris again tomorrow. And maybe it won’t go anywhere, maybe it won’t mean anything, but it’ll be fun: an extra tiny shiver down Sebastian’s spine, a pleasant heat in his stomach, while listening to Chris explain this world that’s so infused with love.

He’ll do his best for the Evans Family Farm and the Harvest Festival. He always does—he falls in love too, every time he tells a story—and if this time he allows himself a momentary single daydream about Chris being pleased by his words, well. That’s private. Just for him. No one else ever needs to know.

He writes, _Walking onto the farm, the air tastes of just-picked apples and blackberry jam and spiced cider and anticipation,_ and the tree branches dance in approval, outside in the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian gets a farm tour...that ends in Chris's bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er...apologies for all the porn-with-emotions? It just kind of happened! They wanted to! Please note the rating change!
> 
> Also, I decided Chris's bird tattoo was a garuda (amusingly enough, I'd written that *before* all the recent Chris tattoo discussion! I like that musette22 and I think alike about this...) because his tattoo artist said it *wasn't* an eagle, and a garuda seemed to fit in terms of Chris's interest in Buddhism and philosophy, and the symbolism about courage and protecting others and fighting injustice! I thought about it maybe being a phoenix or a roc, but I liked the first option. :-)

Sebastian Stan’s beautiful in the morning. Chris can’t help staring.

It’s not even only the physical, though that’s breathtakingly real: Sebastian’s shown up in that same black jacket over a different sweater, this one blue-and-white-striped, and his eyes are pale oceans of excitement and his lips are pink and happy. Even the way he’d bounced out of his car on arrival, all long legs and visible enthusiasm, had hit Chris’s chest like a heart-shaped pumpkin pie.

Sebastian’s selection of jeans isn’t _quite_ as skinny and clinging today. Better for wandering around a harvest festival. Worse for Chris’s ability to focus. He’s got an outline of what might be under there, and now he can’t help picturing it.

But all that _is_ the physical. Attraction, immediate and sizzling, yeah; but there’s more. Oh god there’s more.

There’s Sebastian’s little head-tip when interested and taking notes, fingers in motion in service of a story. There’s Sebastian accepting freshly-brewed cinnamon-pumpkin coffee and making a soft pleased sound at the first sip, a sound Chris would harvest half the farm to hear again. There’s Sebastian, who might’ve taken the cynical patronizing angle, instead asking thoughtful well-researched questions about the needs of various crops, the support of local musicians and artisans, the dance-hall nights and the grove that’s sometimes a wedding venue.

Sebastian’s kind. Bright and brilliant against October backdrops—slate-hued sky, shining orange pumpkins, tall rustling cornstalks—and somehow the most defined piece of the world. New and different, here from outside—but wanting to be here. Eye-catching. Intriguing.

Chris gulps his own tea. Blackberry and sage and too hot, it stings him into doing his job. “So. This is the restaurant.”

They’ve been sitting out on the back porch, sipping morning warmth; they’ve got about fifteen minutes, and some visitors are already lurking in the parking lot. The craft stalls and displays are all set up, local friends and festival participants offering honey and wood-carving and face-painting and home-brewed ale. The kitchen’s braced for an onslaught of seasonal appreciation for pumpkin chili, and Scott’s checking on the catapults for the next day’s dramatic afternoon. Chris could be helping out elsewhere, welcoming visitors or running a register at the General Store or driving a tractor for a hayride—

But instead he’s here. For at least two reasons. Three, if he’s honest.

“It’s nice. I like the leafy centerpieces. The theme, and the colors. And this.” Sebastian sips more seasonal coffee. His fingers are long and tanned, lifting a rustic orange mug. “Tell me about our schedule? You had some things in mind to show me, you said.”

“Yeah.” He has to clear his throat; Sebastian’s just licked those lips, evidently unaware of the effect of that gesture. “Um. Thought maybe we’d walk around the craft fair first, sort of an overview, and then maybe fit in a hayride before lunch? So you can see what that’s like? And after lunch there’s the giant pumpkin weighing, and then maybe I can take you out for some apple or berry picking? And tomorrow, um, there’s the corn maze? And pumpkin catapults.”

“All of that sounds fantastic.” Sebastian’s making some notes. “Do you have favorites? Any parts of the festival? And…if you wouldn’t mind…can I talk to a few of your festival staff, or the local vendors, or guests?”

“Everyone knows you’re coming, and they’ll be happy to.” Most of them will be; Sebastian Stan has a reputation for accurate and joyous representations of the places he visits. “The guests, um, you can ask, but it’s up to them?”

That excellent reputation doesn’t mean Sebastian’s _not_ a journalist at heart. Someone who might like an exposé. And Chris Evans hiding out at a family farm isn’t new news, not decades after his film career, but might be a tempting subject. Whatever happened to that teen idol. Former actor loses way, metaphorically, in corn maze. From applause to apples. No.

Those three reasons haunt his spine. He’s here guiding Sebastian around because someone has to, for one. He’s offered to do it because he does have some media experience and he can try to handle any difficult questions; that’s why him in particular, and reason number two. His mother’d looked at him kindly when he’d said he would; Lisa Evans has always been there for her family and friends, a pie-baking rock in a tempest, and she’d put a hand on his arm and suggested that he didn’t have to, they could ask anyone else, no need for Chris to be a public face.

Chris wants to be here. That’s the third reason.

That electricity. That goddamn undeniable crackling shooting star that flies through him every time Sebastian smiles or scribbles a note or says a word or meets his gaze. That shock of want and delight and yearning that leaves him airless and walking on air all at once. Like the first sip of crisp hard cider and the bite of alcohol and apples and bursting sensation.

He thinks, he hopes, he wonders—

He wants to believe Sebastian’s felt it too. The way they’d fallen into step, in sync, coming up the steps to the porch; the way Sebastian’s hand rests so close to Chris’s on the table, paused in writing, lying casually a whisper away, so near Chris’s skin can all but feel the touch…

If Sebastian wants this—

It can’t happen. Can it?

Sebastian’s a journalist. It’d be a story.

But Sebastian’s a travel reporter, and Chris Evans is _old_ news, and even more than that, Sebastian’s kind-hearted. Chris can see that, has read that, in articles and pale mountain-stream eyes. Sebastian cares for people; that _must_ be true.

Sebastian Stan the award-winning journalist isn’t going to settle down on a farm and stay with him, not even in daydreams, but maybe, maybe, if they both want—just for a night, just for one night, understanding that, giving in to this and to the aching pleasure of it, because they _do_ want—

Sebastian says, amused, “You can’t pick a favorite activity, then?” and Chris recalls there’d been a question and blushes intensely and hides behind another swallow of tea.

Resurfacing, he tries, “Um, I don’t know! The pumpkin launching’s always good. Local fall beer. The way people look when they come in from picking their own apples and berries and everything, you know, like maybe they don’t get to do that a lot, and they look so excited and so sort of proud and satisfied. And then if they want to make cider and use an antique pressing machine—and then the kids love the face-painting and hayrides and—oh, man, I don’t think I _have_ an answer, I can’t even pick, shit, sorry.”

Sebastian’s gazing at him, pen arrested mid-motion. Lips slightly parted. Eyes all big and blue and grey as tumbling clouds.

“Um,” Chris says, self-conscious. “What? Too dumb an answer? I know, I know, Scott always says I’m a giant meatball, the words just come out, it’s like…” He tries to wave a hand in demonstration. Tea leaps and splashes.

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s okay!” Sebastian, having dodged tea-splashes, rescues his notebook, does some more gazing at Chris. “Tea? Not coffee?”

“I…like tea. Fuck, I’m awful, here, napkins—is your notebook—”

“It’s fine. We’re all fine.” Sebastian grabs napkins and moves to help mop up tea from the table. Their hands collide, damp and tea-scented.

Despite his own idiocy and the need to crawl under said table for about a thousand years, Chris’s breath catches. Hands touching. Bodies in proximity. Heart skipping a beat.

Sebastian’s started to say something else. Stops. A very tiny sound, a breath, on that side too.

Chris swallows. Hard.

Sebastian, a little shakily, asks, “Where should I—?” He’s holding tea-stained napkins; Chris grabs and disposes of them.

When he turns back, Sebastian’s gotten up from the table. Against a backdrop of orchards and leafy centerpieces, those wide eyes stand out in glorious watercolor. “That was perfect, you know. As a quote.”

“Oh fuck no.”

“It was. You love this place and what it gives everyone. Berry-picking and corn mazes and sheer fun. You love it…berry much.”

Chris stares at him for a second, then collapses into laughter, gut-deep and so all-encompassing he has to catch himself on the nearest chair.

Sebastian tucks his notebook into a jacket pocket. Smirks at him, all mischief in black leather and blue-and-white stripes and playfulness.

“Oh really,” Chris gets out, hauling himself into some form of composure, “oh, _really_ …okay, then, we’re going there…you really went there…that was, um, that was…unbe- _leaf_ -able…”

Sebastian gives him a look of rock-solid delight. “Thought it was pretty a- _maize_ -ing, actually.”

“Jesus.”

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist. Show me your craft fair.”

“Fuck yeah,” Chris says, “come on,” and puts a hand on Sebastian’s arm without thinking twice about it, steering them down the back steps.

He realizes what he’s done about three seconds later, and so does Sebastian, from the expression on that side; but then Sebastian smiles slightly and leans into the touch. In the distance a swell of noise rises: gates open, visitors streaming in, the world giddy over an old-fashioned fall.

Oh, Chris thinks, heart doing some more trapeze routines. Oh. Yes. Yes, then. Just like that, like this. Yes.

He moves the hand as they emerge into the Harvest Festival. They’re dodging families and flying children and strolling adults, and Sebastian’s looking around in the way of someone memorizing details. Anyway, Chris’s aunts and uncles and cousins and siblings’re around, and if he ends up holding Sebastian Stan’s hand in public every last one of them will know within fifteen seconds. So he doesn’t.

But he wants to.

Under grey silk skies and the scents of roasted chestnuts and an orchard in autumn, they walk through displays of honey and beeswax candlemaking, of wood-carving and sunflowers, of hand-tooled leather and candied apples. Sebastian’s smile doesn’t go away, sincere and open and pleased; his arm, his shoulder, brushes Chris’s occasionally as they wander. He pauses to talk to a few vendors, to ask about the experience and the Harvest Festival and the traditions; he listens when they answer, and he watches a shaping of wax into candle with fascination, and his eyes linger on a soft blue leather-bound notebook with a cord to tie it shut.

Chris sticks hands in his own pockets so they won’t reach out for all that generous interest. Sebastian comes back to his side and says earnestly, “I’ve been told to try the blackberry cider,” and Chris says, “Yeah, it’s great,” and means _I want to kiss you_.

He thinks Sebastian wouldn’t mind. He thinks Sebastian might want that, if Chris touched him more, ran a hand through his hair and leaned down and claimed those expressive lips. They might taste like blackberry cider, or the morning’s spiced coffee, depending on how soon the kiss might happen.

The day’s apple-crisp and witch-chilly, but that doesn’t matter. Sebastian tries samples of white chocolate pumpkin butter and raspberry fudge and caramel-apple bread, and runs over to pose with scarecrows, and takes notes while pausing to perch on a convenient hay bale. Chris’s hands ache to wrap him up in cozy knit blankets by a fire someplace, somewhere intimate and honest, where all that enthusiasm can be celebrated and adored and laid bare and naked for worship.

He says, “Stay put for a sec,” and heads over to a hot cider vendor. Jo, who’s known him for years, brews her own cider and ale; she grins. “A date?”

“A…journalist.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not a date.”

“He’s…I don’t know.” He takes both cups. One’s regular, one’s blackberry-infused. “He’s not what I expected, y’know?”

“He’s adorable.” She pats his arm. “It’ll be good for you. Enjoy it. There’s some extra cinnamon in that one, too. Good for the bedroom, if you could use some spice.” She even winks. “If you know what I mean.”

“I am one hundred percent pretending I don’t,” Chris retorts, and takes both and goes back to Sebastian, who’s sitting atop hay with one long leg dangling. Hair fluffed up by wind, glancing around to take in everything, he’s less an acclaimed travel writer than a fellow visitor, younger and wide-eyed and joining in the fun. Chris knows better, knows Sebastian’s clever and good at wordplay and not shy about liking Chris’s hand on him. The paradox sizzles and sings under the October world.

Sebastian takes the blackberry version, cradling heat, and takes a sip. His eyes light up.

“Yeah,” Chris says, “thought you should try it,” and takes a sip of his own. The morning, slipping toward noon, tastes of cinnamon and spice. “And maybe you could use some…warming up?”

Sebastian’s eyes sparkle at him. “I _was_ feeling a little in need of…heat. Can I try yours?”

“Sure.” They trade. Sebastian’s lips brush exactly the spot where Chris’s had, a kiss; Chris, doing the same, imagines the next moment, the next unfolding, the natural next step. Flavored in berries and tart sweetness.

Sebastian’s fingers brush his, trading back. Intentional, from the sideways glance.

“Hey!”

They both jump. Chris catches Sebastian’s shoulder automatically—an anchor, protection, for one or both of them—and yells back, “What!” To Sebastian he adds, “Sorry. Scott.”

“Ah. Your brother.” Sebastian hasn’t objected to being steadied by Chris. Chris’s chest expands with pride, and an odd sort of satisfaction: yes, this, this is right. Himself taking care of Sebastian.

He complains, not meaning it, “The brother I’d trade for a gallon of pumpkin ale, yeah,” and Sebastian laughs.

Scott arrives, raises eyebrows, announces, “Hayride in five minutes, Uncle Mike’s taking you, head on over, also hi, I’m Scott, I’m the cool one.”

“I am definitely up for a ride with Chris,” Sebastian says, and then, while Chris’s brain utterly fails to recover from pure incoherent happy shock, “and he’s doing an excellent job of keeping me warm. We just follow the signs, right?”

“Dude,” Scott says, “you’re awesome, I’m so glad you’re here. Bro, what was it I said you should do and you said you were absolutely not going to do, again?”

“Fu—” Chris spots small children, winces, amends to, “Forget it. Go away. I’m doing a tour.”

“Oh yeah you are,” Scott agrees, beaming at him. “Have fun.”

“Go _away_.”

“I’m going, I’m going! I have growers of giant pumpkins to deal with! Enjoy your ride!”

Sebastian, in the wake of Scott’s departure, looks up at Chris. Not far—they’re almost the same height—but the combination of deference mingled with silent wry merriment bolts along Chris’s bones and goes right to hot private places.

He says, “So, hayride?”

“Hayride,” Sebastian concurs. They go.

Hay in general is poky and spiky and not all _that_ comfortable, but they’ve thrown blankets over some bales and all the wagons’re well-maintained and not too rattly. Children and parents bounce around with glee; Chris makes sure Sebastian’s got a good spot, a view while they follow the track around the farm, and a blanket. Uncle Mike beams at them as they climb in, which means that the family’s either really happy to have Sebastian here or really invested in Chris’s sex life. Might be both.

Sebastian, fingers wrapped around the end of hot cider, smiles as Chris sits down beside him. He’s beautiful and willing and ready to dive right in, to ride on hay bales or put up with Chris’s hovering. He might not be working at all, might be here because he wants to be, because Chris invited him and this is a date and he wants Chris’s arm around him—

Chris’s arm wants to go around him. If this were a date, he could do that. Could just cuddle Sebastian up against him, maybe nestled under a blanket, maybe trading some cider-flavored kisses.

He says, more gruffly than he’d meant because his voice scrapes over desire, “Warm enough?”

“Mmm…mostly.” Sebastian actually scoots a bit closer. Hips and thighs touching. Body right next to Chris’s. Oh god. “Better. You’re good at being a wind-break.”

Chris gives in to impulse and need. Grabs the nearest hearty blanket. Tucks it around Sebastian, kind of awkwardly, not wanting to smother him. “Here.”

“Very considerate.” The tip of Sebastian’s boot nudges Chris’s shoe, not by accident. “Taking care of your guests.”

“Hey, I like making sure people’re…taken care of.”

“Good to know.” Sebastian does that little lip-lick again. “I’m sure…people…appreciate your personal attention.”

Chris, heart pounding with possibility, starts to say something about hands-on attention to detail; but hay jolts under them and the wagon moves and they’re off, on a hayride with distractible children and picture-snapping parents and the long rows of pumpkin-dotted fields to cover, orange and green and beckoning.

And Sebastian’s smile shifts: more rueful, self-aware, not retreating but setting aside the moment for now, in favor of his job. “Tell me about what we’re seeing? And this hayride’s a very traditional activity, isn’t it?” The notebook’s reappeared.

Chris exhales. “Yeah. Um, kinda self-explanatory—I mean, those’re the pumpkins for picking your own, over there—you’ve seen the pre-picked selection on display—and yeah, there’ve always been hayrides, they used to do it with horses, but the farm doesn’t use horses much anymore, so…”

Sebastian nods. Takes some notes. Glances at the kids, the excitement, the clamor as they pass behind the corn maze and the scarecrows. Notes that too: the wide-eyed innocent October-spice giddiness that runs around like black cats and sweeps everybody along like a broom.

The ride’s not too long, just around the main farm, but the views are spectacular. Sebastian even pulls out his phone for a few pictures. “Do you mind? I’m not a real photographer, but I like having references.”

“Go ahead,” Chris says, knee pressed against Sebastian’s, calf rubbing against Sebastian’s as they jolt over a small rut. “Anything you want.”

Back at the main cluster of buildings, he hops down—letting kids and families off first—and holds out a hand. Sebastian laughs, and takes it. Chris promptly folds his fingers around those authorial ones. “You _are_ cold.”

“Just my fingers. I was writing.”

“We should get you gloves.”

“Oh, no, it’s my fault, I should’ve brought mine—I do have some, I just didn’t think, during the day—”

“It’s fall in Massachusetts.” Chris waves his spare hand grandly. “This is _warm_.”

“I live in New York! New York gets cold!”

“Yeah,” Chris points out, “you live in the city, with buildings and traffic and people,” and Sebastian does something between a laugh and a sigh and a flicker of eyes, away and back, and says, “Yeah.”

“Hey,” Chris says, tender and worried, and reaches out.

Sebastian’s eyebrows go up. “Hey….what? Was there more to that sentence?”

“Yep.” Chris holds up the stalk he’s just released from Sebastian’s shoulder, where it’d clung to black leather. “Hay.”

Sebastian blinks once, dissolves into laughter, and ends up with a hand on Chris’s shoulder, clinging, instinctive. Whatever ghost or phantom or scratching unease had fluttered by, it’s dissipated: defeated by unabashed happiness.

Chris could watch him laugh all day. Or longer.

“Come on,” he says. “Pumpkin chili. And harvest ale.”

They find a small side table in the restaurant, out of the way but letting Sebastian observe the full room, the devoured meals, the coziness of home in cornbread and fresh apple cobbler. Sebastian wholeheartedly appreciates their specialties, opting for the extra-spicy chili version and the home-brewed ale with pumpkin and ginger; Chris gets a barbecue chicken sandwich and then forgets to eat much, watching him.

Sebastian wants to see everything, to drink in everything, and they do: dropping by the General Store, the giant pumpkin weigh-off—Scott, organizing, spots them and throws a thumbs-up—and the hard cider tasting tent. Sebastian chats with a few visitors, does some quick interviews and gathers some impressions, takes some more snapshots of massive pumpkins and blue-ribbon pride. He’s lovely and earnest and a little pink-cheeked from another round of moderately alcoholic cider, and Chris wants to kiss him, wants to hold his hand under autumn leaves, wants to learn what else he likes and then do all those things over and over.

He takes Sebastian out into the apple orchard as the evening shimmers in, not quite sundown yet but getting near. Twinkly lights’re coming on across the farm; visitors drift, departing and arriving, a large amount staying for dinner and a final walk through the groves before the farm closes down for the night. Attendance seems up this year, Chris guesses, from the volume of bodies; his family will be pleased.

Sebastian, holding a basket in dwindling light, is quiet for a second, taking it all in. Their feet make almost no sound over serene ground; leaves and branches and low-hanging red sweetness surround them. No one else, at the moment, is in sight; a few voices echo around trees, and of course they’re not alone, but they might be. Alone in a wood, drenched in autumn, just Sebastian’s smile and Chris’s yearning.

Sebastian looks at a tree. Then at his basket. “I’ve never in fact done this before.”

“It’s not that hard. It’s exactly what you’d think.” To prove the point, Chris leans in, finds a good one—red and ripe and shiny—and twists and plucks. “Here.”

“Giving me apples?” Sebastian glances at his basket, at Chris: eyebrows up, amused. “Temptation?”

“Try it,” Chris says, and is amazed at how his voice sounds: low and rumbly and oddly protective, giving Sebastian instructions and encouragement. “That one’s good, one branch up.”

Sebastian reaches up. Takes colorful fruit into writer’s fingers. Tugs.

The apple’s scarlet and delicious against his hand, and he sets it next to Chris’s in the basket with purposeful care. And then he looks up.

And Chris wants, oh fuck he wants, he needs—

Sebastian’s got that same small smirk from earlier, and wind-mussed hair, and dust on his boots; his eyes are hopeful, almost startled, as if struck by unexpected happiness that’s gone all the way to his core.

He says, “Chris—”

“Can I,” Chris says, “I want—if you want—”

And Sebastian breathes, “Yes, please—”

Chris takes a step forward and kisses him.

It’s a light kiss at first because Chris is still amazed: he’s known Sebastian for all of a day, Sebastian’s a reporter, this has come crashing in like a thunderstorm and swept rationality away—

But there’s that electricity again. Reckless, heedless, bursting through them both. They’ve both been wanting this, craving it, dancing with the idea. They both know it.

Chris pulls back just enough to meet Sebastian’s eyes; their pale rain-mist glitters with joy. Chris growls something inarticulate and plunges back in, and Sebastian’s mouth opens readily under his, tasting of cinnamon and molasses and hard cider and chilly air. Sebastian likes being held in place, Chris learns, as he gets one hand in fluffy dark hair and an arm possessively gathering lean muscles close. Sebastian just moans and arches into him, pliant but not passive, clearly aware of exactly what he wants and what Chris wants, and shameless about it.

Yes. Oh god yes. Here, right here, in the family orchard, in Chris’s life and Chris’s heart, everything he’s put himself into, everything he wants—

He makes himself pause. A breath. Two. Not pulling away—and Sebastian’s not either, breathless and unafraid in his arms—but trying to be rational. “You—you do want—you want this. Me.”

“Please.” Sebastian moves against him, not to reject Chris’s hold but to press himself and his arousal against Chris’s body. Very blatant, and very much exactly what Chris also wants. Sebastian breathes again, “Please,” and he’s asking, god, he’s asking, with body and voice and pleading gaze, not innocent but wide-eyed and delighted.

Chris lets out a noise he didn’t know he could make, in response. Tightens the hand in Sebastian’s hair, which earns a fantastic sound, somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. “Tell me what you want.”

It’s half a question, half an order. He’s starting to know what Sebastian likes, what earns which glorious responses; he also needs to know. What Sebastian has in mind, how far this’ll go. If they’re thinking the same.

“I want you.” Sebastian does the sinful irresistible dangerous-to-Chris’s-equilibrium lip-lick again. “Whatever you want.”

“You—”

“I mean that literally. I like…” Sebastian, still incontrovertibly captured in Chris’s grip, grins. Dazzlingly. “Being good for someone. Being claimed by someone, however they want me. Being fucked in an apple orchard.”

Chris laughs.

Sebastian smiles, and the basket’s tumbled to the ground but landed upright, both their apples side by side, and the velvet of sundown catches in his hair, the leaves, the line of his cheekbone.

“I’m not going to fuck you in my family’s apple orchard.” Chris takes the hand out of Sebastian’s hair, trails a finger along Sebastian’s cheek, memorizes the feel of him and the way Sebastian tips his head into the touch. “I’m going to take you home and put you on your knees. And then in my bed. Where I want you. And you’ll be good for me.”

Sebastian’s knees actually wobble a fraction, though that might’ve been the consequences of not only the words but also Chris’s finger tracing his mouth. “Yes. God, yes. Your place?”

“Mine,” Chris says, agreement and affirmation in one. “But first…”

“There’s a first?”

Chris leans down. Swoops. Holds out their basket, where their two apples obligingly peek up.

Sebastian’s mouth drops open. “You’re not serious.”

“I so am.”

“But—”

“But my family knows I brought you out here, you’re here for the experience, and there’s gonna be questions if we come back with an empty basket.”

“ _Chris_ ,” Sebastian says.

“Besides, you’re gonna spend the next fifteen minutes thinking about what you want. And what I want. And what I’m planning to do with you.”

“Fuck.” This time Sebastian sounds impressed. And turned on. Wholeheartedly both. “Fine. But I’m expecting a reward for this.”

“Maybe.” Chris leans in. One more kiss: swift and clear as a vow. “If I decide you’ve earned it.”

Sebastian laughs. “If?”

“Mine,” Chris says again, and means: mine for tonight, mine in the way you want to be, here and now and flavored with apples. Or he means something else, something ridiculous and too fast and enchanted. Something like: mine, because you like terrible puns and blackberry hard cider, because you fit into my life in a way nothing and no one else ever has, because you showed up in a leather jacket with a smile and turned my world into a story.

Sebastian sighs, put-upon but in a teasing way, happy about it; and takes the basket. “Really fifteen minutes?”

“Ten,” Chris suggests. “I’ll help.”

He does. With alacrity. And long limbs. Their basket’s overflowing and Sebastian’s laughing more, a leaf in his hair; they run back over to the main farm, and nearly collide with sunflowers and guests and a giant pumpkin and Scott, who’s eating a deep-fried apple fritter and looking insufferably pleased with himself. Chris shoves the basket at him, says, “Here, be useful,” and grabs Sebastian’s hand. “Come on.”

“Nice to know you’re taking good care of our guest,” Scott says, juggling apple fritter and basket and wry affection, meeting Chris’s eyes.

Chris glances at Sebastian. Sebastian glances back. The echo—earlier comments about being taken care of, about liking to provide exactly that—jump up and dance. Sebastian’s lips twitch: a barely-hidden smile.

“Fuck yeah I am,” Chris says, and tugs Sebastian’s hand. Pulls him along into the night. Chased by strands of harvest-festival folk music like gold.

Up the path, away from guest areas and behind the main house, the weathered white of his small restored barn rises solid and shimmery against deepening green pools. It sits a few steps from his mother’s welcoming arms and the family heart; it stands up worn and proud, and welcomes Chris’s giddiness with its own. They’re bringing Sebastian here. They’re both alive with that recognition. Fuck yes.

He does pause, though. “Um. One thing.”

“I’ve already picked apples for you,” Sebastian mock-complains, not serious; he’s grinning.

“Come here and I’ll pick _your_ apples.”

“What does that even—”

“No idea. But I like kissing you.” He does. And so he does: yanking Sebastian in close, and thoroughly plundering that tantalizing mouth, those pink lips. Sebastian’s perfectly wordless and disheveled and molten against him, after.

“Um,” Chris manages. “Right. How d’you feel about dogs?”

Sebastian stares at him, resurfacing from being kissed. “If this is some weird sex thing—”

“No!”

“Okay, thank god, because—”

“No! Jesus, fuck, absolutely not. It’s just, um, I kinda have one? A dog. Sweetest guy ever, a rescue, his name’s Dodger.”

Sebastian’s the one who leans in for a kiss this time, then says, “I like dogs. And cats, but I’m allergic to them. Dogs’re good, though.”

“Perfect,” Chris can’t not say, as their noses bump together. “Come on.”

He opens the door. Dodger flings himself their direction, tail and tongue ecstatic, a long-legged hurricane of golden-brown and white fur. Reunions happen, enthusiastically.

Chris looks up, mid-tummy rub. Sebastian’s got a shoulder propped against the door; his expression’s fond. Chris suggests, “Come say hi?” and Sebastian smiles and does, hand held out, making friends.

“He’s in here because it’s crazy out there during the festival,” Chris says, and Sebastian nods, scratching in the exact right spot to make a puppy leg kick. Chris loves that his dog loves Sebastian. That Sebastian loves his dog. “I normally do let him run around the farm some. He’s got the backyard, here, though, it’s got a good fence.”

“He’s a sweetheart,” Sebastian says, “of course you want to keep him safe,” and he blushes a little when he says it, though he’s looking at Dodger. Dodger thumps his tail. Chris’s heart flips over inside his chest, swung around by an emotion he can’t name yet.

They kick off shoes in the entryway and wander out to the kitchen, leisurely, unhurried. The next steps are a certainty; they both know it. No need to rush, not yet. Savoring each shiver of anticipation, each promise.

Sebastian’s socks have green-and-black stripes, and Chris’s heart decides that’s adorable for no reason at all, cute as the way Sebastian wiggles toes upon first removing shoes.

He feeds Dodger, who dives in with abandon. Sebastian’s looking around: tall neat shelves, baskets and pale wood, knitted blankets in shades of cream and blue, a big converted remodeled room full of book-stacks and a bowl full of apples and a teakettle. Sebastian’s gaze returns to Chris, smoky grey as opals, swept up in heat.

“So,” Chris gets out, around the matching crackle in his own chest. “This is my place.”

“I love it.” Sebastian takes a step over to him, puts arms around him. “It feels like you. Like a home.”

“I don’t do this a lot,” Chris says. “Bring people here, I mean, not have awesome gay sex. Um. Not that I’ve been doing that a lot either. You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.” Sebastian brushes a kiss to the corner of Chris’s lips, to the spot just along the side of his jaw, just under. His words are warm. “I’m honored.”

Chris turns his head, captures those lips with his. “I want you here.”

“I want you,” Sebastian says. “Here, now, in your bed. Or anywhere you want me. I’m yours.”

“The way you want to be.” For tonight, tomorrow night, this assignment—if that’s all—

But they both want this. Here and now. That’s true.

And Sebastian smiles like an invitation and runs a hand along Chris’s bicep like a man appreciating artwork, excited by what he’s found.

Chris catches his hand. Shoves him back against a kitchen counter. Pins him there with weight and breadth and a hand around one graceful wrist. Sebastian moans, trying to spread his legs, eager; Chris gets a hand between them and rubs, not too gently: over the nice fat bulge in Sebastian’s jeans, which gets another moan and shudder along with a spurt of damp.

Chris raises eyebrows. “You like that, don’t you?”

“Yes—”

“You like my hands on you—me making you feel it, feel this—” More, and harder: playing with Sebastian’s obvious need, through fabric. Sebastian moans some more, eyes growing wide and dark and swept up in pleasure; Chris murmurs into his ear, “You like it so much you’re getting all wet for me, aren’t you? Just leaking all over yourself…gonna need me to take care of that for you, take care of you, just like you want…” and Sebastian practically sobs the “Yes—!” and rocks his hips into Chris’s hand, caught between the caress and the countertops, which are cheering them on.

Chris squeezes one more time—Sebastian’s cock jumps in response, and more dampness spreads—and lets go. “You. Us. Bedroom. Now.”

“Oh fuck yes.” Sebastian looks, and sounds, dazed by lust, all pretty surrender and evident need, though not so much that he’s not smiling. “Except you’ll have to lead the way. Your house and all.”

“Brat.” Chris smacks him on the ass as he moves, because that feels right; from the look Sebastian shoots his way, it’s right on that side too. “Said I was gonna put you on your knees, first…”

“I like your ideas. And your house.”

I like you in my house, Chris doesn’t say. You and your smile, you and your words, you and the way you jump right in and get excited about cider and hayrides and me spanking you.

He says, “You’ll like the bed, too,” and pushes the old barn door so it slides out of the way—it’s a good divider, keeping the spaces apart—and slides it back after them. He’ll let Dodger in later. This moment, Sebastian Stan about to be naked and perfect as Chris’s best-ever daydream—

This is for them.

Sebastian’s wandered over to the shelves along one wall—open and airy, full of books and family photographs and a handmade candle or two—and is trailing fingers over literary spines; he looks up as Chris comes over. The bed, low and large and heaped with blankets in blue and white, sprawls messily half-made under amber lamplight. “Sorry. I can’t resist books.”

“Not like I’ve got secrets.” He doesn’t, really. Nothing complicated. And that small fuzzy safe-harbor emotion purrs inside his heart: Sebastian likes books, the same way Chris himself does, and likes Chris’s books.

He likes knowing that Sebastian likes books. He likes knowing that Sebastian can be briefly distracted from sex by books. He just likes knowing things about Sebastian. “See anything you like?”

“So much.” With a slightly abashed grin; Sebastian’s reaching out, taking Chris’s hand, playful and penitent. “I have that history of NASA—and that same book about deep space exploration—oh, and the Foucault, and maybe half your science fiction and philosophy shelf. You have more books about art than I do. And wilderness survival.”

“Used to want to be a Disney animator.” He lifts Sebastian’s hand, kisses the index finger, takes it into his mouth. Sucks, licks, makes Sebastian shiver. “And I like hiking. Camping. All that. You cold, at all?”

“No.” Sebastian says the word with conviction, fierce and clear. “I’m wonderful. Used to? What happened? Shit, reporter instincts, sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I don’t mind.” He slides hands up, eases Sebastian’s jacket down; Sebastian lets him, and black leather yields to Chris’s command. “Pretty much just not a good enough artist. Not a big story or anything. I knew I wasn’t gonna set the animation world on fire, no worries, don’t feel sorry for me.”

“I don’t.” Sebastian lifts his arms, allows Chris to peel his sweater up and off: revealing smooth skin, acres of lean muscle, dark taut nipples. He’s gorgeous. Chris wants to run hands all over him, to find out what makes him moan or scream or come apart in ecstasy. “I was just thinking that you’re full of stories.”

“Me?”

“You.” Sebastian’s fingertips tug at the buttons of Chris’s shirt, equally impatient. His eyes are unexpectedly earnest, looking up. “You’re so much.”

“Um…thanks?”

“I didn’t mean that! Or, well, that too!” Sebastian’s laughing now; his hand cups Chris’s dick fleetingly through jeans, and Chris rumbles, “So what did you mean?” and traps his hand there for a second, pressing his own on top, so that Sebastian’s lips part and Sebastian’s grip tightens in place.

“I meant,” Sebastian says quietly, grave and sweet as woodsmoke and sapphires and falling leaves, “that everything about you is so full of love. The way you talk about liking things, with your whole heart—it’s so honest. So real.”

Chris doesn’t know how to answer that, and he’s pretty sure he’s blushing—his ears and cheeks feel hot—so he settles for moving both hands to the waist of Sebastian’s jeans and tugging, meaningfully. Sebastian laughs a little, smile curiously reflective; and loses jeans and socks and also clinging underwear, with impressive speed.

He’s beautiful naked, of course. Chris had known he would be. Strong and long-legged, with that long waist to match, and the luscious rigid display of his arousal pushing up from dark curls. The head’s already wet and shiny, and the wetness even slicks the shaft, so full and flushed. Sebastian’s the one who gets faintly pink-cheeked this time, as Chris drinks the sight of him in. “I did say I like your hands on me.”

“Yeah,” Chris says, “looks like you like it a lot, so show me how much,” and puts hands on his bare shoulders and pushes.

Sebastian goes readily. Dropping to both knees on Chris’s bedroom floor. Licking his lips, gazing up.

Chris yanks off his own shirt. Gets his jeans open, those plus his boxers shoved down and kicked away, his cock jutting out. The air’s warm, not chilly; Sebastian’s expression’s enchanting, utterly enthralled by length and girth. Chris puts a hand in his hair, twining among dark waves, tugging a fraction.

Sebastian whimpers; Chris pauses. “That okay?”

“Very okay. Good sound. If I want you to stop I’ll say so.”

“Got it.”

“I want _that_. In my mouth, right now, please.”

Chris laughs. Here, naked, cock inches from Sebastian’s mouth: Sebastian’s made him laugh. He’s never felt this before, this kind of radiant joy that makes him want to shout in glee or kiss Sebastian witless or fuck Sebastian until those lapidary eyes are full of nothing but pleasure, over and over and over again.

He opts for the third choice. Hand cupping Sebastian’s head. Cock pushing into Sebastian’s mouth. Length and width, and he’s not small, making pretty lips open wide. Sebastian moans a little at first, and then can’t make much more noise, as Chris sinks deeper and fills him up.

Chris pauses. Draws back. Thrusts again, even deeper.

Sebastian’s whole body ripples in response, in happiness at being taken and used this way; his eyes slip half-shut, then open, holding utter contentment. His mouth’s wonderful, hot and skilled, good with tongue and suction and friction; he’s more active at first, stroking and sucking, pulling sizzling sparks up from Chris’s gut and balls and the base of his spine. Sebastian’s own cock, Chris notices, is upright and dripping even more, smearing slickness all over his stomach—and untouched, because Sebastian right now only needs Chris’s cock in his mouth to feel that good, it seems.

He pauses again. Pulls back, just his tip resting over Sebastian’s tongue, hand tugging Sebastian’s head back. Sebastian whines, needy and begging; Chris says, “You love this. You on your knees, me fucking your mouth…such a pretty fuckin’ mouth…” and pushes a thumb in there along with his cock, stretching wet pink lips.

Sebastian nods as best he can, desperate. Chris rubs the thumb over the corner of his mouth, deliberately filthy, a little amazed at himself. “But you need me to take care of you, you said. So I think you should get what I decide you get. So…you’re just gonna stay right here on your knees, and let me really fuck this pretty mouth, okay? And you’ll just be good and take it. For me.” Inspiration flashes, and he adds, “The way you want to be good for me. My good boy, Sebastian.”

For a heartbeat he’s afraid that’s too much, too far—it’s almost an out-of-body second, as he hears his own words and nearly panics; he can do this role but he hasn’t done it _much_ , especially not lately, but with Sebastian it feels natural, it feels right, the way everything feels right—

And Sebastian gasps, around Chris’s cock still just barely in his mouth, “Yes, yes, please, Chris— _yours_ —”

“Good,” Chris tells him, and the world spins back into equilibrium, except not the same as before, even better now, crazy and wondrous and incredible. “Good.” And he shoves his cock back into Sebastian’s mouth, hard and deep.

He’s not as tender this time. He takes Sebastian: plunging in and out, down into that long elegant throat, making Sebastian choke and quiver and then soften and submit. He holds Sebastian in place, all the way down; Sebastian takes it fearlessly and joyously, putting himself in Chris’s hands, even as Chris keeps him there and fills him up and doesn’t hold back. Sebastian’s gasping for air when Chris lets him breathe, but he’s also smiling, in an arousal-drenched dreamy way, gazing up at Chris.

He’s sweet and lovely and devout; he’s decadent and debauched and despoiled, a paradox. His eyes are brilliant and serene, full of wholehearted surrender.

Chris fucks his mouth some more just to see it. His length, pumping in and out. Sebastian naked and kneeling before him. Sebastian’s mouth all wet and reddened and well-used. Sebastian moaning, hips jerking, cock leaking even while his eyes get all blissful and his mouth’s so easy now, so pliable and messy, head lolling into Chris’s grip. He’s even drooling a little, not seeming to care, as if he’s drunk on the feeling of Chris’s cock.

Chris does need to make sure they’re both here, they’re both good with this. He gentles his touch. Strokes Sebastian’s hair. “Hey, sweetheart.”

Sebastian whimpers a little, adorably wordless, and tries to lick at Chris’s cock some more.

“You’re good,” Chris says, “you’re so fuckin’ good, so sweet, god, so sweet for me, but I’m checking in, okay? You doin’ all right? Need anything, more or less or anything you want?”

Sebastian looks up at him for a second, eyes big as oceans, face all covered in messiness, himself and Chris; and then leans in and tucks his face into the crease of Chris’s hip, just breathing, shivering slightly.

“Hey.” Chris runs a hand over his head. His leg’s growing damp. “I’m good with stopping if you say so.”

Sebastian sits back. Gazes up at him. Shakes his head, and summons up a slow-growing smile like a magic spell. “I’m not saying stop.” His voice lands ragged, raw, astonishing. Chris has done that. They’ve done that.

Sebastian goes on, “It’s been a while for me too,” and the words hold a vein of glittering loneliness like unexpected thin gold, a trace left behind, a glimpse in the dark. Chris wants to gather up all the gold and tell it how much it’s valued. Sebastian finishes softly, “This is so good, Chris, I—you’re good. Please fuck me. If you want to, I mean. But I want…you asked what I want.”

“Works for me.” He touches Sebastian’s wet mouth with an index finger. “Definitely works for me. Tell me if it’s not good, though.” He wants Sebastian to feel good. He wants to feed Sebastian pumpkin chili and gingerbread and homemade cider all day long. He wants to pour light into all the lonely brittle darknesses.

“I will.” Sebastian kisses his finger. “Fuck me hard. Make me feel it.”

“So much yes.” He gets hands on slim shoulders. Sebastian’s not that much smaller, comparatively speaking—they’re both tall, and that’s a decent amount of muscle—but not as broad as Chris himself, and right now that feels right too; and he gets Sebastian up off the floor. Nudges them to the bed. Stops for a quick kiss or two along the way, which prompts a laugh, and then pushes _his_ Sebastian down into pale creamy sheets. Against the backdrop, dark hair and glowing raincloud eyes become artwork, a painting, a treasure.

Sebastian watches with undeniable appreciation while Chris lunges for lube and condoms. His cock remains untouched, stiff and dark and slick with want; he spreads his legs, shifts against the bed. “Please—”

“ _So_ sweet.” Chris dives back over to him, runs a hand all over him: flat stomach, hip, a thigh. “Mine.”

“Fuck yes.”

“This.” Chris wraps his hand around Sebastian’s cock—finally, at last—and Sebastian moans, pushing up. Chris squeezes, hard. “This is mine. Whatever I want to do with it. With you.” He’s doing more while talking: rough strokes, handling, jerking Sebastian’s cock, making the head get even more shiny and fat and red. Sebastian practically sobs, but in ecstasy, head falling back against Chris’s sheets.

“So ready for it,” Chris says. “You need it, don’t you, sweet boy? You need me to take care of you. To fuck you until you come all over yourself, because you will, won’t you? Just like that. So easy for me. Bet I could make you come right now, just from me playin’ with this nice sweet cock, my hand on you, if I told you to.”

“God—” Sebastian’s voice cracks; his eyes close tightly and then open, finding Chris. “Yes, yes—anything, everything, tell me—yours—”

“Thinking maybe I want you to.” He tugs at Sebastian’s cock some more: hard and fast, commanding, taking charge. He rubs a thumb over the head, across the tip, smearing fluid; he turns the thumb to press a nail into the slit mostly because it’s just occurred to him to do that, and Sebastian nearly shrieks in surprise and ecstasy, cock pulsing in Chris’s grip.

Chris does it again, and strokes the length of him, up and down: playing with him, teasing, alternating pleasure and sharpness. Sebastian’s sobbing now, writhing against Chris’s sheets, mouth open; Chris keeps going, faster now, not letting up, and whispers, “Come for me, like a good boy,” and rubs at his slit, stretching it a little, opening it up. “Mine.”

Sebastian cries out, shuddering, surrendering; his body yields to sensation and comes and comes, release spurting out all over his stomach and chest in thick heavy white. His back arches, and his eyes are glorious faraway silver-blue, lost in rapture; he comes in a long drawn-out tremble of time, longer than Chris expected, though Chris’s hand continues playing with him, working him through it.

Sebastian’s malleable and drowsy after, limp and lax against the bed; he shivers a few more times, and mumbles Chris’s name.

“How was that?” Chris pets his hip. “Looked pretty nice.”

“Chris,” Sebastian says, as if it’s the only word he can remember. “Chris…god…I feel…”

“Still good with me fucking you?”

“Yes,” Sebastian whispers. “Yes, please…I want you, I want to feel you…fuck me, Chris, please, I need…I need you…”

“I need you too,” Chris says, and he means it, god, he means it. The words bloom like apple trees in spring, in his heart. Newness and beginnings and truth: he knows it’s true.

He slicks up his fingers; he caresses Sebastian’s balls, the tender skin behind them, the tempting pink rim of that opening. Sebastian’s all nice and pretty here too, pink and hungry, muscle fluttering as if eager to be invaded. Chris strokes him, pets him, gets him all wet, and pushes in. One finger to start; Sebastian’s tight but orgasm-relaxed and thoroughly willing. Chris draws the first finger back, adds a second, pushes.

Sebastian moans, sounding wrecked, sounding taken-apart and thrilled with it. Chris shifts the angle, crooks his fingers—it’s been a while as far as doing this, but he’s pretty sure he remembers—and curls them up a little, and finds that spot, and feels it.

And Sebastian gasps, mouth falling more open, body tensing and rocking in place. He whimpers something like a yes, so Chris does it again, and then again, until Sebastian’s shaking and crying out and moving blindly against his hand, head rolling back and forth over the sheets.

“You like that,” Chris murmurs, “you like me not stopping, don’t you…seeing what you can take, how good you can be for me,” and makes sure the motion’s just perfectly relentless. “You gonna come again for me, sweetheart? On my hand inside you?”

“No,” Sebastian moans, “no, no, I can’t—please—no please _don’t stop_ —oh god, oh god Chris—I need—I need—”

“What do you need, sweet boy?” He pets Sebastian’s shaking thigh with the other hand. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know—I—I—I need you, I need—don’t stop, don’t— _Chris_ —” Sebastian’s voice turns into a scream, high and cracking, and his body spasms, and his cock dribbles a sudden thin rush of release over itself, dripping down. Sebastian twitches, shakes, whimpers in shattering euphoria. Chris slips the fingers out, and Sebastian sobs and stirs, hands fumbling to reach for him, wanting him back.

“I know,” Chris says around the piercing radiance in his heart, the way he wants Sebastian to feel this good always and forever. “I know, sweetheart, I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of you. Fill you up, the way you need, nice and big…”

He gets the condom on with shaky hands, and moves between Sebastian’s spread thighs, and makes sure Sebastian’s all open and lube-slippery and ready for him; he hesitates for a moment, only a moment, gazing down.

Sebastian Stan, clever and kind and award-winning. A reporter. In his bed. Quivering with want, sticky with climax. Wholly given over to Chris’s touch, Chris’s care. How’d they even gotten here? So fast?

He runs hands over Sebastian’s long legs, loving muscle and smoothness. Sebastian’s pen catches the corner of his eye; must’ve rolled out of a pocket when his clothing hit the floor.

The sight nibbles his heart like cinnamon, sharp and poignant. A reminder. But he doesn’t need it. Sebastian’s here and Chris is here and they’re both choosing this, whatever it is or isn’t or might be in the future: they both want this now.

So, then. Time to give them both what they want.

He yanks Sebastian’s legs up and out of the way; Sebastian moans, eyelashes fluttering down and up. He’s fantastically abandoned, shameless, covered in evidence of how much he does want this; Chris thrusts, pushing into him, hands on Sebastian’s hips and biting down.

Sebastian cries out softly at the first blunt thickness of the penetration; Chris stops, but Sebastian’s already begging for more, a tangle of yearning babbling words: Chris’s name, yes, good, more, so good, please, yours, take me—

“You want that, baby?” Harder, then. Drawing back, and slamming into him; Sebastian’s body jolts and tightens around him, hot and slick and clenching all around Chris’s length, and Chris groans inadvertently. Sebastian feels so damn unbelievable, looks so spectacular, and clearly loves every motion, every pounding—

“You like getting fucked, sweet boy? Getting filled up, a nice big cock inside you, making you all mine, using that sweet little hole the way I like—the way you need—” He sees the way Sebastian’s body reacts, the way Sebastian’s gaze gets all unfocused, thoughts swept away by sheer coruscating sensation. “Giving you what you need, baby, like this—and _this_ —”

He wraps his hand around Sebastian’s cock on the word. Half-hard, it’s wet and sticky and vulnerable, filling his grip; and Sebastian outright wails but doesn’t say stop.

Chris grins down at him. Fondles him, caresses him, toys with him. Sebastian’s whole body shudders, head to toe, and then again: mindless oscillations of rapture. Sebastian’s mouth’s slack with pleasure, hanging open and wet; he’s only making small inarticulate sounds now, blurry and indistinct.

Chris rubs the head of his cock. Gathers sticky droplets. Pushes his thumb against the corner of Sebastian’s mouth, smearing come and saliva, making Sebastian taste himself. Sebastian tries to suck at him, uncoordinated, clumsy, clearly still wanting.

Chris thrusts into him, sinks into him, takes him—and sees Sebastian gazing up, finding him amid all the sparkling oceans. Sebastian keeps watching him, wordless and reverent, as if Chris is an anchor, a marvel, an answered prayer; that gaze bolts through Chris’s gut and down his spine and into his soul, and all at once he’s going to come, he needs to—

He pants, “Think you can come for me one more time, sweetheart—like a good boy, my good boy, one more, coming on my cock while I fuck you—” and Sebastian makes another helpless broken sound, moving under him, with him.

“Come on,” Chris whispers, “let me see you, one more for me, come for me, the way I want, the way you want, me making you come,” and he’s fucking Sebastian and playing with Sebastian’s poor sweet over-used cock, and Sebastian gives a tiny cry and convulses beneath him, around him, as a few drops of thin clear liquid dribble from his slit onto Chris’s fingers—

Chris can’t think, can’t talk, as abrupt crashing gold bursts through all his senses. He falls into scorching searing wild release; he pours himself out into the condom, inside Sebastian, who’s all around him.

He collapses atop Sebastian in the wake of it, stunned; and then hastily shoves himself up, taking some weight. “Sebastian…?”

Sebastian blinks slowly. His hair’s sticking to his face. His lips are still parted, soundless.

“Hey,” Chris tries, shaky. “So…you said you like, um, that…kinda…”

“I…” Sebastian blinks again. “God. Fuck. _Chris_.”

“Um…thanks for the compliment?”

“Holy fuck,” Sebastian says, getting breath back. “That…that was…you…Jesus. I can’t even _think_.”

“So…good?”

“Chris Evans,” Sebastian says, and laughs a little, shaking his head, lying sweaty and sticky and triumphant under Chris’s weight, in Chris’s bed. “How are you real?”

“Kinda thinking the same about you.” He bumps Sebastian’s nose with his. “You—oh, shit, hang on.”

“What—oh.” Sebastian sucks in a gulp of air, a hiss, as Chris pulls out. “Oh, fuck.”

Chris instantly tosses the condom at his trash can and sits back down. “Are you—hurting, or—I didn’t—”

“No, good fuck. Pun intended. I like it.” Sebastian grins up at him. “I’m totally going to feel this, but I actually kind of enjoy that. Feeling it all, after…”

“Knowing it was real,” Chris says, hand resting on Sebastian’s stomach.

“Yes,” Sebastian says. “That.”

Properly showered and cleaned up—Sebastian’s sort of wobbly despite protestations of being fine, and Chris takes proprietary charge of scrubbing his skin, washing his hair, enjoying the feeling and the care—he finds comfortable pajama pants and cozy henleys, and then pauses, arms full of fabric.

“What?” Sebastian finishes running fingers through wet hair, towel around his waist. Sends a smile Chris’s way, apparently unbothered by any abruptly destabilizing mental questions. “Planning to keep me naked instead?”

“I mean. Yeah. But I was just thinking…” He shifts clothing. Blue-and-green plaid flannel droops over his wrist reassuringly. “I didn’t even ask if you, um. Wanted to stay over.”

Sebastian’s expression flickers through surprise, amusement, and something Chris isn’t quite sure about. “I didn’t think about asking. I mean I just sort of…” He waves a hand: at the situation, or at Chris’s bed, or at the way their thoughts seem to’ve run down the same exact path. “This felt…”

“Right,” Chris fills in. “This feels right.”

Sebastian licks his lips. He does that when he’s thinking, Chris has come to realize. When he’s taking a second, looking for the right words, not wanting to get them wrong.

Chris likes knowing that. The same way he’d liked Sebastian looking at his books, and holding his hand, and picking apples in an orchard.

He says, “So….for the record…this is me asking you to stay over?” And Sebastian laughs out loud, which makes Chris’s whole body glow.

They wander out to the kitchen hand in hand. They get bowled over by an enthusiastic whirlwind of dog, and give Dodger some attention for a while. Chris offers to make dinner, because it’s getting late and, frankly, he’s hungry, and Sebastian must be too.

Sebastian tosses Dodger his stuffed lion and gets up from the floor, accepting Chris’s hand. His voice is wry, self-directed. “I’d offer to help, but I’m not really good at cooking? I can about handle chicken breasts, on a good day. Or peanut butter sandwiches.”

Chris shrugs and says, “I’m not either, really, but I can do some stuff, y’know? Pasta okay?” He’s still holding Sebastian’s hand; he rubs his thumb over the back. “And, hey, you can’t be perfect at everything. Gotta leave something for the rest of us.”

Sebastian gives him the world’s most sarcastic eyebrows, but blushes a little, and then tucks himself right into Chris’s arms and nuzzles a kiss under Chris’s jaw.

“Not sure what I did to deserve that,” Chris points out, “but tell me so I can do it again?”

Sebastian bites him, but lightly: a nibble at Chris’s throat. “You’re you. Make us pasta? I can hand you things.”

“Works for me.”

They manage pasta, with Chris’s aunt’s homemade tomato sauce and some quick meatballs. Sebastian looks mildly skeptical about the whole concept of making meatballs from scratch, but watches with vast interest. “You said you weren’t really a cook either.”

“I’m not.”

“That’s cooking. You’re cooking.”

“And you’re helping. Stir that.”

Sebastian does. And gives Chris that complicated expression again: startlement, maybe, and happiness. Something unexpected, now found.

They finish cooking, together.

They curl up on the sofa, and devour pasta, and tangle their legs together. Chris folds an arm around Sebastian when they’re done eating; Dodger’s happily flopped on his bed on the floor. “Warm enough?”

“Absolutely.” Sebastian tips his head against Chris’s chest. “I’ve got you. And your clothes.”

“I like you wearing my clothes.” He does. Very, very much.

“Excellent,” Sebastian says, “me too,” and settles into Chris like he plans to stay there. “Movie or something? Or more mind-blowing sex, but give me a while to recover, first.”

“Fuck yeah. Um…documentary about the design and history of deep space telescopes?”

“Really? Sure. I’m in.”

“Thought that was me. In—”

“In me, thanks, got it.” But Sebastian’s lips’re threatening to laugh. “Terrible. Why am I sleeping with you, again?”

“Because I made you meatballs and you like my pajama pants?”

“You’re a meatball,” Sebastian says, contentedly. “And I do like your pants.” He’s snug and flannel-bundled and secure against Chris, a welcome weight; his hair’s drying into fantastical gravity-defying waves.

Chris grabs the blanket off the back of the sofa—a thick knitted cream wool expanse that’s big enough for two or six—and tucks it around them, and hits play. And he thinks about feeling warm, about Sebastian feeling warm; he thinks about autumn light and space exploration. New frontiers. Discoveries.

He leans his head against Sebastian’s, as they watch telescope assembly on the screen.

Later, he takes Sebastian back to bed, and takes a lot of care—he’s not going to let Sebastian end up sore, even if it’s welcome—and gently tenderly runs hands all over Sebastian’s body, slow deliberate caresses; he learns that Sebastian likes attention but is embarrassed about it, blushing and squirming as Chris patiently touches and explores and tastes and kisses. He nestles Sebastian against him, back to front, and pushes his cock between Sebastian’s thighs, lazy and unhurried; he strokes Sebastian’s cock and cradles Sebastian with his other arm, holding him tight.

Sebastian trembles and clutches Chris’s arm and comes apart for him, easy and yielding and almost innocent in the tiny gasps and unguarded reactions, rocking hips and sighing and going languid in Chris’s firm grip. Chris murmurs praise into the closest ear, words about how good Sebastian is, how beautiful, how sweet; and when Sebastian comes this time it’s soft and slow and shivery, an exhale, a loosening all over. Chris presses a kiss into the curve where his shoulder meets his neck, and thrusts between Sebastian’s thighs and up, rubbing against luscious flesh; he comes like that, with Sebastian boneless and sated in his arms.

After, holding each other, he offers up, “You, um, you’d tell me if I’m not…doing it right? This whole…thing.”

“You mean what I like?” Sebastian doesn’t bother to move, head pillowed on Chris’s shoulder, arm draped over Chris’s chest. The smile’s audible in his voice. “You’re basically the definition of awesome in bed, you know.”

“How long have you…no, that’s a dumb question…I mean, what do you…I mean, you know what you like…if it’s not too, like, personal to ask about. It’s too personal, never mind, shit, sorry.”

“Chris, you’ve had your dick up my ass,” Sebastian observes, but with affection. “No, it’s not too personal. I don’t know, though. I just…I know what gets me off. I figured it out the same way you figured out what you like, probably? Reading some stuff, watching some stuff, trying some stuff. You know.”

“Yeah…you, um. Is it like the whole…BDSM scene? Or…”

“Me? Nah, not as such.” Sebastian shrugs a shoulder. “Tried once or twice. I don’t like actual pain that much and I travel too much and I’m too sarcastic sometimes…I just like the submission. Being dominated. Being held down or tied up, maybe. Spanking, sure. That kind of light stuff. But mostly I want the…well, the part that’s more…”

“Belonging to someone,” Chris says. “Being good. Being theirs, because they want that, they want you.”

Sebastian nods against his chest.

“I get it,” Chris says. “I think, anyway.”

“Oh.” Sebastian moves to sit up, to look at him. “Did you want—I mean, I can switch, I don’t do it a lot but I totally can, if you want—I wouldn’t mind—”

“No. Or maybe. I don’t know. No, I meant I liked doing that for you.” He has one arm around Sebastian; he adds the other, and holds on tightly. Sebastian props his chin on one hand on Chris’s chest, and listens silently but attentively, not protesting.

“I liked seeing you,” Chris says. “Seeing how good you were feeling, knowing I did that, I could do that for you…I like that.”

“Good?” Sebastian’s voice sounds more tentative than Chris likes, but some tension goes out of his body, taking in the answer. Liquid gilt-edged lamplight pools along his shoulder, down his arm, over the side of his face. “It was…really good, for me. Like…really, really good.”

“Works for me,” Chris says, and kisses him.

Some time after that—not more sex, but soothing clean-up and cuddling in bed, grave and tender, shy merriment instead of outright laughter, caught in the edges of smiles and hands and glances—Sebastian inquires, “Can I ask about your tattoos?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure.” Chris yawns, waking up more. Runs through a few: his mom’s zodiac sign, the Tolle quote, the memorial to a lost friend, the garuda stretching wings across his chest, the tribute to his siblings over his ankle. “Kinda want one more, something small. Over here.” He pokes somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, ungracefully. “Not sure what, though.”

Sebastian puts out a finger to touch that spot too. “Maybe something simple. A star. For space, and guidance, and compasses, and adventures.”

“A star,” Chris says. “I like it.”

A while after _that_ , when he thinks Sebastian must be asleep, he breathes into the shadows of the night, “I’m glad you’re here.”

The night, in the shape of his familiar shelves and drawers and the sleeve of Sebastian’s jacket—now hanging over a chair—takes the words in and keeps them safe. Dodger’s snoring at the end of the bed, the usual light puppy noises of sleep. His bedroom, his house, shelters them all with tranquility.

Sebastian’s still a reporter and has a job to do. Tomorrow’s the second half of the Harvest Festival. And Sebastian’ll be gone the day after: gone and writing his story. Chris knows that. He really does.

But he means each syllable. He’ll never be anything but glad to have met Sebastian. To have had this, with this man.

He thinks maybe he does want to get a star. Right there, above his heart.

Sebastian, who is not after all asleep, mumbles drowsily, “I’m glad I’m here too,” and sticks his foot under Chris’s ankle, warming up cold toes. Chris’s ankle loves being asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They definitely have some things to talk about, in the morning. Possibly with hot chocolate.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian, the morning after, waking up with Chris. Also, a ~~metaphor~~ corn maze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one grew a spanking scene, which I did not expect, but at this point, why not? *laughs* This is probably the kinkiest they'll get, though; after this we mostly move back out of the bedroom and away from the sex scenes. (There's one more short sex scene in the *very next* chapter, but I think that's it.)

Sebastian wakes up in Chris Evans’ arms, and wants to either swear at himself for letting his emotions make the decision, or stay right where he is, forever. He also wants coffee. Unromantically, he also has to take a leak. He lies very still and lets himself appreciate Chris’s warmth while sorting through colliding emotions.

He’s slept with Chris Evans. He’s slept with someone who’s more or less a subject of his story, not to mention the whole former celebrity part, the being _miles_ out of Sebastian Stan’s league part—

And his toes’re cozy, and Chris is a large lightly snoring weight at his back, all wrapped around him, fuzzy with beard and masculine hairy legs, and the sex has been the best Sebastian can ever remember.

That’s not an exaggeration, or not much of one. He’s had great sex before, he’s had skillful dominant partners before, but this—oh, this, with Chris—

So right, Chris had said. Yes. Right.

Easy as breathing. Natural as the flickers of lightning in his fingertips whenever they’d brushed against Chris’s earlier, walking around. Chris is gentle but authoritative, caring and cherishing but stern and demanding in exactly the way Sebastian craves, someone who’ll push him and wring orgasms out of him and not let up but who’ll also praise him and hold him and tell him he’s done well, he’s been good, he’s Chris’s because Chris has chosen him…

His dick, half-awake and half confused about its current needs for various kinds of relief, announces its readiness for more attention. That feels good too, a lazy early-morning purr of arousal under his skin, in his bones.

He’s a bit sore but not much, and only because it’s been a while and Chris has drawn at least three glorious golden threads of climax out of his willing body, coaxing release from his cock and his hole again and again. Chris’s hands’ve left—not even bruises, but awarenesses, the lingering impressions of strength over Sebastian’s hips and thighs. He loves feeling them: being well-used, claimed, marked with memories of pleasure.

Chris makes a drowsy sound and shoves his face into Sebastian’s neck. Sebastian tries to gather thoughts that aren’t _will you please fuck me senseless again right now because I think I can’t get enough of you_ , but Chris only exhales and drifts back to sleep. At the foot of the bed Dodger’s snoring too, a happy sleeping carefree puppy at rest.

The morning’s sharp and grey as dry branches, but Chris’s bed’s guarded by knitted blankets and friendly sheets and Chris himself. Sebastian ends up smiling at cool autumn light. Like the light, he likes it here.

Chris Evans, he thinks again. Teenage fantasy: check. Definitely. On younger Sebastian’s hopeless crush list for years. Hopeless for the obvious celebrity reasons, and also because, well—

Chris Evans was straight. Or so Sebastian’d thought. So everyone’d thought.

Clearly everyone including Sebastian himself’s been wrong about that one. Chris knows his way around a man’s body, as Sebastian’s own body helpfully reminds him.

He really does want to go find Chris’s bathroom now, so he sighs and wriggles out from under Chris’s blanketing arm—which involves some flexibility, since Chris is inclined to hold on with various octopus limbs—and heads off to take care of that. He’s immediately cold, and wants to dive back into warmth.

He glances at himself in Chris’s mirror, washing his hands. He looks like someone who’s spent the night getting very thoroughly fucked: his hair’s standing up, his throat has beard-burn, his expression’s sated and satisfied. He likes it.

He finds the guest toothbrush Chris had offered the night before, and uses that quickly in case of morning kisses. He catches sight of the shower behind his shoulder. He’s been in this shower, with Chris. With Chris taking care of him.

He ends up smiling.

He looks at himself in the mirror again. He looks, he decides, happy.

He runs back to the bed, where Chris is just barely sitting up, fluffy and sleepy and adorably perplexed. “Sebastian…?”

“Right here! Sorry.” He dives for heat and Chris; Chris immediately folds strong arms around him. Sebastian announces, “You’re so warm,” and shamelessly burrows in. “Keep _me_ warm.”

“Good plan. I like it.” Chris yawns, nuzzles his face against Sebastian’s, does something between a kiss and an attempt to eat Sebastian’s face. “You feel nice.”

“You feel…” Perfect. Like every single one of my best daydreams, the kinky sex fantasies and the ones about being held just because it does feel nice. “Like hot apple cider. _Totally_ hot. And spicy.”

Chris shakes with laughter. Dodger, now that his person’s awake, throws himself their direction and shoves his head under Chris’s arm, and both Chris and Sebastian reach to pet him, and it’s all so domestic and wonderful and overwhelming and unbelievable that Sebastian’s eyes prickle with heat.

He tucks his face into Chris’s neck. Maybe Chris won’t notice.

Chris rubs his back. “You okay? Not too sore? Nothing too rough?”

Nothing’s too sore. Sebastian’s not okay.

He wants this to be real—god, he _wants_ —

He wants to wake up here in this converted barn with books and candles and knitted blankets and a happy dog and the scents of chilly dry-twig air and pumpkin spice and apples. He wants to wake up with Chris Evans, and to stay with Chris Evans, and to beg Chris to use him and to make him scream with endless pleasure and to _want him_ —

Fantasies. Daydreams. This is Chris’s life. Not Sebastian’s.

He says, muffled by Chris’s heat, “I’m good.”

“Know you are.” Chris’s voice manages to wink, over-exaggerated and affectionate. “ _So_ good.”

“Hey, you seem to approve.” He sits up. Scratches Dodger some more. Gets a tail-thump against his knee: approval there too. “You, um. You…I could…I should…should I…get dressed? What time’s it?”

“Six thirty-two.” Chris sits up too, and reaches out; one big hand cups Sebastian’s cheek, lifts Sebastian’s chin. “Sebastian Stan.”

“Um. Yes?”

“Just thinking…” Chris laughs, though it’s the kind of laughter that’s almost reverent: quiet and amazed. “You came home with me.”

“I wanted to.”

“I wanted you to.” Chris strokes a thumb over Sebastian’s jawline. “I want you. Today—I know you’re working, we’ve got more to show you, totally doing the corn maze—but after…if you want…I know you’ve got other stories to work on, places to be, I get it, I’m not asking for anything…but maybe tonight…you’re still here tonight…”

“Yes!”

“Yeah?” Chris hasn’t stopped caressing him; those oceanic eyes search Sebastian’s face with endearing gravity. “You want to come back home with me tonight, and let me take care of you, give you what you need, get you all nice and sweet for me again?”

“God yes,” Sebastian agrees, wholeheartedly.

“You want a little taste of that right now?” Chris’s hand lifts; a finger skims Sebastian’s cheekbone, and brushes his eyelashes when he blinks. “Not too much, but something before we go to work?”

“I don’t think _little_ is the right word,” Sebastian observes, with a glance at Chris’s cock—so splendidly full and thick and long—for good measure. “And yes. And it won’t be too much.”

Chris taps fingers against his cheek, not hard, a scolding. “You said you want me to take care of you. I’ll decide when it’s too much. You always a brat in the mornings, or you just want me to do something about it?”

“Before caffeine? Yes to both.”

Chris grins. “Works for me. Okay, you stay put and stay warm. I’ll be right back.”

“But—”

“Be good.”

Sebastian subsides, with a wordless grumble or two. He likes Chris taking charge; he likes the way Chris tucks him into blankets, proprietarily fussing over him, making sure he’s covered up against autumn spikiness. He likes Chris getting up and stretching—deliciously naked, and that _body_ , god; Sebastian’s hand might sneak into his own lap for a tug or two at his cock, at the sight—and then pulling on pajama pants, heading into the bathroom for pretty much Sebastian’s same routine from earlier, and calling Dodger and going out to the kitchen.

Sebastian, momentarily alone in his blanket-nest, contemplates the half-shut old barn door, a fold of knitted blue over his left foot, the collection of space and art and philosophy and books about dogs on Chris’s shelf. The books beam encouragement his way. The blankets, having been given instructions by Chris, cuddle in close.

He should get up and check his phone, which is in his jacket pocket. He’ll have emails to answer. New assignments lying in wait. Poking from Charles about the proposed book idea. Notes to write up, though he doesn’t have his laptop.

He wiggles his toes, idly. They’re comfortable.

New assignments. New places to head off to, new faces, new hotel rooms, night after night and trip after trip. Sebastian loves writing for _Wanderlust_ , he really does, he just…

…doesn’t want to get up. To move. To take himself out of this luxurious welcoming bed and Chris’s life.

He wiggles his toes again. Accidentally collapses a foothill of sheet.

A scent sneaks in. Coffee. Roasted and dark, with maybe some hints of spice. Sebastian’s entire being perks up.

But Chris drinks tea. He considers this fact, and tries to peek around the half-open door without moving. The angle’s not great.

Steps arrive, followed by the marvelous presence of coffee, followed by Chris himself. He’s smiling, shirtless, rugged and considerate: made of tattoo-ink and muscles and low-slung pajama pants and thoughtfulness and unselfconscious happiness at the sight of Sebastian in his bed.

Sebastian’s knees go weak, which logically they shouldn’t be allowed to, since he’s sitting on the bed. They do anyway.

“Here.” Chris sits down beside him, holding out the mug. “Hope you don’t mind cinnamon mocha.”

“I adore all forms of coffee.” And you. And you, so much. “Don’t you drink tea, though?”

“Yeah, but Scott likes coffee.” Chris shrugs a shoulder. “I keep some here. Um, did you want sugar or—”

“No, this’s perfect. Like heaven. Cinnamon mocha heaven. I admit to being a Starbucks addict.”

“I can see it.” Chris is watching him gulp caffeine; Chris’s smile shifts, some other emotion flickering in and out. “You like being warm.”

“Like the _hot_ cider.” He bats eyes at Chris; is gratified when Chris snorts; goes on, “Thanks.”

“For what?”

Sebastian tips the mug—blue with little white flecks, rustic and homey—his way. “You remembered what I like.”

“Sebastian…” Chris stops himself, though. “Okay. Hey, can I try something?”

“Sure?” He hands over the mug when Chris beckons, though not without some longing.

Chris laughs. “It’s still for you. Come here.” They shift positions; Sebastian ends up cradled against Chris, in Chris’s lap. He’s naked; Chris is clothed, albeit only in pajama pants. Something about that feels good: himself smaller and cared-for and vulnerable, laid bare for dominant protectiveness.

Chris holds the mug to his lips. Sebastian takes a sip obediently. When Chris lowers it, says, “Oh. We’re doing that.”

“Not okay?”

“Fine as long as you don’t _stop_ giving me caffeine.”

“Brat,” Chris retorts, entertained. “This’s me taking care of you. You just lean on me, let me do all the work, take what I give you…just like that…good boy. So good, Sebastian.”

Sebastian, rather embarrassingly, whimpers out loud at that one. Squirms in Chris’s lap. Accepts another sip when Chris gives it to him.

“You like that, don’t you?” Chris kisses the side of his head. “See, that’s what you need. What you really want. Getting my attention. Which you totally have. So you can be all good and sweet for me.”

“Yes,” Sebastian says hazily. He’s safe and warm and being hand-fed sips of coffee. Chris is taking care of him. Chris knows what he needs, what he wants. He swallows, and swallows again. Chris is careful: measured delicate sips, never too much.

“This’s nice,” Chris says. “This, you, the way you feel…I like this.”

“You’ve done this…with other people? Before?” Not eloquent, but words aren’t working well. Sebastian’s whole self feels pink and gold and fuzzy, drenched in heat.

“Nah, not much. Some. A little.” Chris’s words are tangible, rumbly and deep, where his body’s supporting Sebastian’s. “Nothing formal, like you said you tried once or twice…I like giving people what they need. Making them feel good. Had a girlfriend really into getting spanked; that was pretty good.”

“You’ve got good hands for it. All broad and…” Sebastian tries to explain; gives up. His cock shifts, rising, fattening, yearning. He’s yearning: the thought’s laced rainbows down his spine, pooled them between his legs, made his body clench and soften. “Big. Strong. Um. Chris?”

“You want me to spank you, sweet boy?”

“Maybe. Might’ve been going to ask for more coffee.”

“Right,” Chris says, “so you _are_ asking,” and gives him another sip, longer this time: Sebastian swallows, has to keep swallowing, isn’t allowed to stop. His cock twitches, throbs with pleasure, gathers a bead of want at the tip.

“Huh. You like that too.” Chris takes the mug away and sets it on the bedside table. “Good to know. So…how do you like it? Over the bed, over my lap, something else?”

“Um. Your lap. Is awesome.” Fuck. Chris hasn’t even touched his cock, and Sebastian’s ready to come on the spot. “I like not being in control.”

“Got it.” Chris kisses his eyebrow, quick and affectionate. “And you said it’s not so much about the pain? So not too hard?”

“Some. The edge of it, sort of. More about the act and you doing it to me.” He runs a finger along the top of Chris’s pajama pants, tugging, dipping beneath. “Hey, speaking of. How about you stop talking about it and actually, y’know, do it?”

Chris’s eyes get all pleased and hot and intent, and one big hand traps Sebastian’s wrist. “You and that mouth. Wanting me to make you scream, is that it?”

“Lots of promises here,” Sebastian points out, “no follow-through yet—”

He finds himself grabbed and manhandled and shoved face-down across Chris’s lap, a blur of commanding motion. His cheek’s pressed into the sheets, cream-hued folds soft against his skin. His cock’s pinned between his own weight and Chris’s thigh, and it’s already dripping with the joy of the sensation. He’s bare and exposed, and Chris’s hand’s warm at the small of his back, and he knows Chris is looking at him.

Anticipation shoots shining arrows all through him. Bright and multihued, pumpkin-orange, leaf-scarlet, crackling as the wind.

“Ten,” Chris decides. “And you’re gonna be good, you’re gonna lie here and take it. Because you’re not in charge of anything, not right now. I am. The way you want. Right, Sebastian?”

“Jesus,” Sebastian breathes into the sheets. The sheets concur. Chris Evans, using that voice, taking control. Yes _please_. “Um. Yeah.”

“Good boy,” Chris says, and Sebastian outright whimpers, hips jerking in an instinctive reaction he should maybe be embarrassed about, but fuck that.

His cock rubs against Chris’s thigh. He moans.

“And you’re not gonna come. Not yet.”

“Fuck—”

Chris pauses, curious. “Can you? Just from being spanked?”

“Um…maybe. I have before. A couple times. Not every time. Like this, though…” He squirms happily against Chris again. “Definitely yes. If you let me.”

“Huh. Okay, then… _if_ you can, you can. On ten. Not until then. Because you’re being good, right?”

“Yes,” Sebastian says, thoughts starting to grow indistinct, the faintest edges of clouds shimmering in. He’s draped over Chris’s lap and being good for Chris. That’s good. That’s where he wants to be, where he should be. “Yes, Chris.”

“Getting all sweet already?”

“Your fault,” Sebastian protests fuzzily. “You…talking to me…this… _all_ your fault.”

“Hey, there you are.” Chris feels and sounds amused, petting his hip. “You sound like you. Want me to spank you for it?”

“Yes, please.”

“Count for me,” Chris reminds him, and the hand lifts from Sebastian’s hip, and there’s a single heartbeat of hovering, waiting, humming build-up—

The impact lands. Hard. On the right side. Searing and pink, reverberating, sizzling. Sebastian’s toes curl, and he hears himself moan, low and liquid, as he feels the shape of it, of Chris’s hand on him, Chris’s mark. Light washes through his head and leaves him breathless.

“One,” he manages, voice coming out slurred, intoxicated, drunk on delight.

“Good boy,” Chris says, and spanks him again, the other side this time, making Sebastian’s body jolt against his thighs. Sebastian’s ass tingles with heat, and the tingles shiver all the way up and down and everywhere, filling him up the way he needs.

He remembers to count. Chris pets his hip gently, praises him. Spanks him again, and again, finding a rhythm, alternating sides. Sebastian mumbles numbers, Chris’s name, a blurry yes or two. He’s suffused by light now, knowing only that: the crack of Chris’s hand against him, the glowing luminous clouds of sensation, the deep-seated anguished ecstasy of his body taking what Chris gives him.

He’s open-mouthed and drooling into Chris’s sheets. His cock’s drooling too, spilling pleasure all over where it’s pinned between himself and Chris’s leg. It feels nice. So nice. His body surrenders, yields, goes limp under the spanking. He murmurs something indistinct, a happy small sound, a noise that comes out all light and soft.

“Sweet boy,” Chris says. “Sebastian.” The impacts pause. Sebastian murmurs incoherently and tries to rock himself against Chris, pleading and clumsy.

“Hey.” Chris touches his cheek. “Still with me?”

“Chris,” Sebastian says. He’s Chris’s. Right here, right now, that’s what he knows. That’s what he wants.

“Yeah,” Chris tries, “but you’re looking kinda out of it, I’m just checking in, okay? You can hear me, right?”

Sebastian attempts to gather thoughts from flowing sparkling clouds. Chris is worried about him. Which…might be fair, actually. He can’t remember the last time he slipped this far under, this fast. Might be that it’s been a while. Might be just Chris. He thinks it’s that.

He manages, “Here. Sorry. ’S good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Fuck, you’re good at this.”

“So’re you.” Chris strokes his back for even more affirmation. “The way you look, god, it’s so fuckin’…I don’t even have words. Like you’re feeling so good, and I’m making you feel that way. It’s like…fuck, it’s incredible.”

“Pretty incredible on this end too,” Sebastian says, which makes Chris laugh and drum fingers over his ass, centered right on the hottest burning spot. Sebastian sighs with pleasure; Chris asks, “Good? Not too much?”

“No, I like it. I like when you…” He’d wave a hand, but his body’s busy being submissive syrup. “Touch me.”

“I like touching you.” Chris sketches a heart over that same overheated spot. The spot tingles, happy. “That was seven. You want more, or you good?”

“You said ten. We’re not done.”

“God, you’re perfect.” Chris rubs his ass, slow and deliberate, kneading in sensation. “How’re you fucking perfect? Okay. And if you need to come, you can, but only on ten. When you say it.”

“I can do that,” Sebastian tells him dreamily. “All over you. Your lap.” He can’t help rocking his hips at the thought.

“Sounds good to me.” Chris lifts the hand. “Let’s do that. My sweet boy, my Sebastian. Three more.”

Number eight feels harder than the previous seven, though maybe that’s because of the interruption, or because Sebastian’s ass is scorchingly sensitive by now. He sobs in the wake of it, and Chris pets him and tells him he’s doing so well, so good, so sweet, he should see his ass, all red and pretty, because he’s Chris’s good boy and he deserves to know that, to feel it.

Sebastian trembles as the warmth rushes through him; his body tightens with need and then relaxes. The heavy secure radiance from earlier returns, and pulls him into mindless wondrous clouds. The world expands and narrows at once, a thick honeyed paradox: he’s profoundly aware of Chris’s hand coming down over his ass, of his cock being rubbed over and over against a growing wet patch of fabric, of his cheek pressed into sheets, where he mumbles the eight and nine dazedly. The fabric’s wet there too, under his face, from tears of sheer bliss and from his open mouth, hanging loose and slack between each count.

Chris strokes his ass, feather-light. Sebastian whines, needy and desperate and wholly dependent on Chris’s next motion, word, decision.

“So good,” Chris tells him. “My good boy.” And one finger trails down the cleft of his ass, pressing, teasing.

Sebastian whimpers. Tries to spread his legs, anything Chris wants, everything, yes, more.

Chris has both hands on his ass now, caressing, tugging his cheeks apart, exposing his hole. The muscle clenches, wanting.

“So pretty.” Chris touches him, touches the rim: still maddeningly light, and Sebastian sobs and twitches in frustrated pleading. “Shh,” Chris says, and rubs at him there, softening him, turning him to candlewax and flame. “Mine. The way you want to be, don’t you? Just opening up, all nice and easy for me. Just giving it all to me, aren’t you? This poor little cock—” His leg bounces. Sebastian wails, shuddering and wordless, thoughts empty of everything that isn’t pleasure.

“—and this sweet little hole. Needing me to fill it up.” Chris rubs at him some more. “Wonder what’d happen if I spank you right here?”

Sebastian’s entire body seems to gather up and billow with ecstasy; a ripple shudders through him, not quite like an orgasm but like a promise of one, a premonition, a prophecy to be fulfilled. It leaves him quivering helplessly over Chris’s lap, voiceless.

Chris follows through. The impact’s instant and all-encompassing, a roaring crashing coruscating burst. Sebastian shakes against Chris’s legs and cries out against the sheets in wordless unthinking rapture; Chris demands, “Count for me, ten, and you can, you can come,” and Sebastian wails, “Ten—!” and he’s coming, he’s coming, he’s lost in it, subsumed by it, broken into sugar and crystals and waves of iridescence that carry him away.

He’s utterly lax over Chris’s lap, after: barely aware of anything except scattered echoes of sweetness that make him twitch and whimper. Chris rubs his back, pets him, praises him. Tells him he’s gorgeous, amazing, wonderful; says words about being honored, being so fucking lucky, so glad Sebastian’s picked him. Sebastian drifts in and out for a second or two, awash with release and relief. He feels so warm, so complete. So good. The way Chris says he is. They are.

He catches hold of more rationality the next time he’s closer to the surface. “…Chris?”

“Hey, sweetheart.” Chris strokes hair out of his face. “Good for you?”

“So good. I feel all…” He moves a hand, lets it flop against the bed. “Yes. But. You.”

“Me,” Chris says. “Kinda want to fuck you right now. Only if you’re up for it.”

“You’re doing most of the work,” Sebastian informs him lazily. “But yes, absolutely. Fuck me. Use me, when I’m like this.” His toes’re still sparkly. And his fingertips. And everyplace.

“Got it.” Chris lifts him, moves him, handles him. Sebastian goes readily: face down, hips up, freshly-spanked ass on display. Chris stops along the way to kiss him, passionate and heated, with tongue; Chris’s hand fondles his spent sticky cock. Sebastian whines into the kiss; Chris laughs and nibbles his throat.

Chris strips off soaked pajama pants—Sebastian did that, came all over Chris’s leg, unable to help himself—and throws them someplace. Moves back between Sebastian’s shaking thighs. Gets fingers caressing Sebastian’s hole again, slicker now with the glide of lube. “Want to fuck you like this. Feeling you, so fucking hot, from me spanking you…”

“Yes,” Sebastian begs, half-muffled by the sheets. “Yes.”

Chris opens him up fast but with care, fingers working in him, stretching him, making him ready. Sebastian’s hole’s tender and hungry, yearning for more; he’s languid and pliant in Chris’s hands and the afterglow, and that makes it easy, because he’s easy for Chris.

When Chris pushes in, the head’s thick and fat and blunt, and Sebastian cries out; Chris stops. “Too—”

“No, no—don’t stop—please, more, I need it, I need you, need to be yours, Chris, please—” He’s babbling now, pleading, needing: poised with just the head of Chris’s massive cock entering him. “Please, please—”

“Yeah.” Chris’s voice comes rough and ragged, as if he feels the same. “Mine. Gonna fuck you the way you need, the way you want, filling you up, makin’ you feel it…”

In the wake of the words he thrusts, hard and penetrating. His cock plunges in, thick and stiff and hot and everything Sebastian needs.

He sobs with relief, with happiness; and Chris pulls back and does it again, again and again, powerful pounding thrusts that launch fireworks through Sebastian’s body and mind. His ass throbs from the collisions atop the spanking, a beautiful glittering riot of hurt and want. Chris doesn’t let up, but speeds up, rougher, hands on Sebastian’s hips; Sebastian’s cock, swinging freely, drips suddenly: not entirely hard again but somehow leaking.

Chris slips a hand under him. Makes that discovery. Begins playing with his cock, which is so sensitive already, making him wail and spasm and rock his hips, unsure if he’s feeling too much or not enough. Chris tells him, “Mine,” and snaps their hips together, rigid heat battering that iridescent place deep inside. “Mine, and you can feel it—want you to feel it—god, you’re fuckin’ perfect—feel so good, fuck, _Sebastian_ —”

And Chris is coming, then: climax contained by the condom, but body taut, slamming into Sebastian’s one last time; and Sebastian’s whole world goes white and shocked and glorious, something like a second orgasm pouring through him. His cock’s not fully hard but it’s spilling every final drop left to give, spurting liquid all over Chris’s hand; his mouth’s making a wordless groaning sound that feels wrung out of him, the way the orgasm’s wrung out of him, no control left as Chris fucks him with the heat of searing handprints on his ass.

Chris sags forward atop him. Sebastian’s legs give out; he collapses across the bed with Chris sprawled over him. Chris is panting, murmuring his name, pressing kisses to the back of Sebastian’s neck, shaking a little with release; and then pushes himself up, taking some weight. “Sebastian—god, that was—fuck, are you okay, was that too much—”

Sebastian can’t talk yet. Chris makes a tiny distressed noise and tries to peek at his face without leaning too much weight on him. “Seb? Sebastian?”

“Fuck,” Sebastian manages, dazed. “That…that was…Jesus, Chris. I can’t move.”

“Shit. Sorry—” Chris lifts himself up, pulls out—Sebastian gasps—and disposes of the condom and grabs tissues and starts gingerly worriedly trying to see if he’s hurt Sebastian’s body, while doing clean-up. “Fuck. Does this hurt, or—”

“Chris.” Sebastian makes one hand wake up with pure force of will, and rests it on Chris’s arm. “I feel fucking amazing. You’re amazing. Yeah, okay, that might be actually sore now, but it’s good. Good kind of sore.”

Chris sighs. “You’re pretty red still. Here, and here…” His fingers brush spots on Sebastian’s ass, cautiously. “A little too hard, maybe?”

“No,” Sebastian says, after thinking about sensations for a second. “But almost. Still on the awesome side of the line, but kind of close. Looking at the line across the room and pondering its existence, maybe.”

“Okay.”

“I’d’ve told you if it stopped feeling good.”

Chris meets his eyes. Takes in that honesty. Nods. “Okay.” This one sounds more convinced. “So…good for me, too. In case you couldn’t tell. More than good. Like, the best I ever even dreamed about sort of good. Um, anything I can do to help?”

“Maybe. Got lotion or something? Anything with aloe, arnica, something sort of cooling?”

Chris looks briefly surprised; Sebastian asks, “What? Also yes to the best ever part.”

“Nothing. I just…wasn’t sure you’d ask for something.”

“I’m not a masochist.” Sebastian squeezes Chris’s arm, where his hand still is. “I like feeling good. I like you taking care of me. I trust you.”

“Oh.”

“I mean it,” Sebastian says, and holds Chris’s gaze with his own, putting everything he’s feeling into the reassurance.

Well. Almost everything. Not how badly he wants to stay right here, to have this always, to feel this contented. To wake up with Chris Evans, in this bed, with morning coffee and incandescent sex and companionable blankets, and then to spend a day writing, maybe out on the porch or at the restaurant, seeing Chris for lunch, surrounded by apple crispness and spiced cider and love.

He can’t tell Chris all of that, because he has a job to do and Chris deserves someone who won’t leave.

But here and now he’s with Chris, they’re together, and he’s honest about it all: about how good this is, how happy he is. So he tries to hold all that out, looking at Chris just then.

He adds, “I could also use a shower, I’m all sticky,” and Chris laughs, and blinks, and swipes a hand across his eyes, answering. “We can do that.”

“And more coffee?”

“Oh, okay, we’re back to making demands.” Chris is grinning, eyes dark and soft and fond. “What else? Breakfast? Scrambled eggs okay?”

“If you’re offering.” Sebastian taps fingers over the wrist in his grip. “I mean, I could buy you breakfast at your restaurant, or something.”

“We don’t have time—” Chris automatically looks at the clock. So does Sebastian. They both wince.

“So,” Sebastian suggests, “very quick shower?”

“Light-speed. Come here?”

“I can stand up—”

“Can you?”

Sebastian’s legs argue about this. He ends up leaning on Chris, who wraps an arm around him. “Yeah, thought so. You going to be okay, walking around today?”

“I’m not sure okay’s the word for it.” Sebastian tips his head against Chris’s shoulder. “But yes. I like feeling it, I said. We’re good.”

They are. In shared showers and Chris's hands washing his hair and Chris's fingers smoothing mint-and-herb scented balm over sore places, they are. They are, as much as it hurts: they’re not just good, they’re fantastic, and Sebastian wants to keep this morning, to hold it close and treasure it and wrap it carefully up in heart-strings, so that he can return to it when he’s far away and cold.

Maybe Chris wouldn’t mind him visiting again. Not for work. Just for…this, whatever it is or could be. A moment, a weekend, a glimpse—

But that’s not fair. It’s not fair to Chris, who might want to find someone else, someone who’ll settle down here, maybe someone who knows about farms or knows how to cook and can share those moments in a kitchen, hip to hip, taste-testing sauces, feeding each other. It’s not fair, because Chris has already said _no expectations_ and _I’m not asking for anything_ , Sebastian heard him, which means Chris is trying to make sure Sebastian knows where they stand, that this is all there is: two nights of profound and freely chosen mutual desire, two nights while Sebastian’s in town, no more.

He takes a deep breath, and finds his jeans from the day before. Hopefully no one’ll recognize yesterday’s clothes. Even if they do, well, he’s not sticking around to hear any comments.

He checks his phone. Messages from Charles, no surprise. He’ll read them later. He shoves the phone into his pocket. Turns.

Chris, very close—Sebastian nearly takes a step back in surprise, but catches the reflex—is holding out more coffee and a mild mother-hen expression. “Everything still good? Sure you’re not too sore?”

“It’s not that. It’s…” And now he has to lie. “My editor’s pushing this project. Book project. He thinks it’ll be a bestseller.” All those words’re technically true.

“But you don’t want to?”

“It’s not exactly not wanting to.” He accepts round two of caffeine and follows Chris out to the kitchen. Dodger bounds around their legs with canine glee. “It’s more…I don’t know. I’ve never written anything book-length. And I don’t feel like I have a good idea, exactly. A narrative. Something to follow. I could try, I kind of want to try, it’s just…”

“It doesn’t feel right yet,” Chris says. “Not quite the right time, maybe.” He’s cracking eggs one-handed, but he pauses to nudge a shoulder into Sebastian’s; his gaze is earnest. “But if you want to try, then sometime it’ll be the right time, y’know?”

“Maybe. Can I help? I can follow instructions.” Chris sends him to find red pepper; Sebastian comes back triumphantly and hands it over, and leans a hip against the counter, cradling seasonal coffee, watching.

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m admiring. You’re impressive in a kitchen. And in bed. Kind of funny, though…”

“What?”

“Nothing really. You might not want to know—oh, fine. I was just thinking, younger me would never believe this. Me and Chris Evans. You were basically my if-he-weren’t-famous-and-also-straight teenage fantasy.”

Chris’s hands pause.

“And now,” Sebastian says, “I’m in your kitchen.” It’s not everything he’s thinking, but it’s a part. It’s also a sneaky opening, half-intentional, because he can’t help being a journalist and because up until a day ago he _would’ve_ sworn Chris Evans was straight.

Chris exhales. “I wasn’t sure…I mean, I figured you knew who I was. I know you do a ton of research. But you never said anything.”

“It’s not why I’m here.”

“You never asked about it.”

“I won’t,” Sebastian says. “If you don’t want me to.”

They stare at each other for a drawn-out heartbeat.

Chris lunges for eggs. Rescues them from heat.

Sebastian takes a sip of coffee, carefully hiding emotions behind cinnamon mocha steam.

Chris turns back. “I’m not straight.”

“Yeah.” Sebastian raises eyebrows at him. “Kinda figured that part out.”

“I’m bi. I’m not _not_ out, it’s not a secret, it’s just.” Chris shrugs, serious and light all at once. “I always was bi, I mean. It was just easier—Hollywood, my agent—people said I should date girls, and, hey, I like girls, so…I dated girls. But I never said I was straight. No one ever asked.”

“Huh.” Sebastian considers this. “Guess we all assumed. Which isn’t exactly fair to you. But you are out? Kind of?”

“My whole family knows. My agent knew. One or two guys I, um, y’know, at parties, back then. I’ve been pretty open about it since moving back here, but I didn’t, like, take out a front-page ad or do a press tour or anything. Plates? Cupboard behind you?”

Sebastian finds plates—interesting deep grey with white abstract swirls down one side—as instructed. Chris finishes, “So that’s that. Not a big story. I kinda like the idea that I was your fantasy, though. Hope it was good.”

His tone’s playful but his eyes say more: an abrupt shark’s-fin spike of doubt, of anxiety, of the idea that maybe for Sebastian this’s all been about some twisted daydream fulfilment, getting to sleep with Chris Evans and getting a story about bisexuality and spanking.

Sebastian takes another sip of coffee, sets down his mug, puts both arms around Chris’s neck, and kisses him. Thoroughly. Employing tongue, and teeth, and a sudden rush of protectiveness. Chris is his, at least for now. No doubts, no hurt, allowed.

When he finally draws back—not without nipping at Chris’s lower lip on the way—those eloquent-ocean eyes are big and hopeful; Chris says, “So that’s a yes, it was good, then?”

“Mind-blowing. I won’t say anything. I wouldn’t, anyway.”

“Guess my sexuality’s not really part of your article?”

“It’s not. But also…you’re trusting me with this.” He pokes Chris’s chest, right where they’d talked about a new tattoo. A star. Discoveries. “Thanks for that.”

“I do trust you,” Chris says, simple and sincere. “Um. Eggs? We’re already going to be late?”

“Good thing I’m staying here and not driving over from the hotel,” Sebastian agrees contentedly, watching Chris’s smile.

He knows Chris has left a few unspoken holes in that story. What’d made him quit acting, or if not officially quit at least never come back from his visit home. What more there’d been, if it hadn’t been entirely about hiding his sexuality. Which might’ve been, probably had been, part of it—but that hadn’t sounded like it’d been painful enough to give up a steady, if not superstar, acting career.

Chris hasn’t offered him those answers. So he grins and devours the best scrambled eggs of his life and touches Chris every chance he gets, while putting plates in the dishwasher, finding shoes, getting ready. And he doesn’t ask.

They step out the door together, hand in hand.

The air’s heady with autumn, suffused by fall. Pumpkin spice and chai lattes and green vine-scent. Wood-carving and pies and rich brown earth and grey skies. Children laughing, craft fair vendors calling out hello, and sunflowers nodding back. Sebastian breathes it all in, and writes it into his memories forever.

Chris’s hand remains with him: at his elbow, at his back, touching his shoulder to direct his attention. They chat with some guests; Sebastian asks about their favorite parts of the festival. They chat with a few staff members, overseeing events and activities; Sebastian asks about what they do, why they love the Evans Family Farm so much. He takes notes: community, they say, and tradition and family, and the fun of fall, and sharing the fun with so many people. Love and pride radiate from every answer, and from Chris’s shoulders.

Chris loves this too, and loves sharing it, he knows. With guests. With family. With him.

They attempt the corn maze, waving at an Evans cousin who’s watching over the opening. Cornsilk and stalks stretch above Sebastian’s head, and he’s not quite _immediately_ lost but definitely out of his depth. Green and gold leaves rustle, and some other people chatter up ahead, but no one’s in sight.

He says, “Left or right?”

“Unfair,” Chris says, “I can’t tell you. You pick.”

Sebastian narrows eyes at him. “You’d better actually know the way out, because if I end up dying of starvation in a corn maze, it’s your fault.”

“I know the way out,” Chris dismisses airily. “But we’re giving you the experience.”

“It all looks the _same_.”

“Like…corn?”

“Shut up,” Sebastian complains, “we’re going left,” and pulls Chris that way.

Left and then another left proves to be a dead end, but that’s okay, because Chris laughs and puts both hands into Sebastian’s hair and holds him in place for a sudden electric rainshower of kisses, a transcendence of kisses, kisses that plunge in with tongue and conquer Sebastian’s mouth and plunder and lay a claim. Chris nibbles his lower lip, growls a rumble of Sebastian’s name, dives back in.

Sebastian’s dick’s rock-hard in his jeans, and he doesn’t even care that other people might walk around that same corner, he doesn’t care because Chris doesn’t seem to care and he’s Chris’s, he’d come in his pants if Chris put a hand on him and stroked him and ordered him to, he’d get on his knees in the dirt and suck Chris’s cock until Chris came, hands tugging Sebastian’s hair just like that.

One big hand wanders down to grab Sebastian’s ass, to pull their bodies closer. Chris is hard as well, arousal blatant and unmissable. Sebastian makes a completely instinctive noise and rocks their hips together.

Chris smirks, pulling back. “Corn mazes a turn-on?”

“You’re a turn-on. I think I love corn mazes. I love making out with you in corn mazes. I probably shouldn’t say what I want to do to you where other people can hear.”

“Show me later.” Chris looks him up and down, and brushes some possibly imaginary dust from Sebastian’s sweater, pausing to rub mock-accidentally against his dick on the way. “Looks like you’re seriously enjoying the corn. Like you might appreciate a good…shucking.”

“Oh god,” Sebastian says, more a groan than a protest. “My… _ears_.” And he takes absolute pride in the way Chris doubles over laughing. “How do we get back to where we were, anyway?”

“Come on.” Chris takes his hand. “It’s not that hard. There’s a pattern to it, I swear. And we do send people in to make sure no one’s getting seriously lost.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“I’d never let you get lost.” Chris squeezes his hand. “You trust me, right?”

“Yeah.” Sebastian squeezes back. “I do.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they have a perfect day, and try not to think about Sebastian leaving in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the last *long* chapter/last big sex scene! The last two chapters should be shorter and not really in the bedroom, as much.

Sebastian trusts him. Chris’s heart expands. His stomach does a flip. Butterflies swoop. Every metaphor comes to life, right here on his family’s farm with Sebastian Stan holding his hand.

He lets Sebastian make decisions about the corn maze—which results in so much getting lost Chris starts to wonder if it’s on purpose—and holds on tightly under judgmental cornstalks and a grey velvet sky. Sebastian laughs and kisses him every time they encounter a dead end, eyes sparkling. He’s luscious and exuberant, dressed in yesterday’s outfit because he’s spent the night in Chris’s bed, because he’s walking around and taking notes with Chris’s handprints on his ass and the scrape of Chris’s beard just visible at the edge of his sweater, against his throat.

He’s a miracle. Chris’s heart fills up some more, and tries to break its own bounds, in his chest. Too much to contain.

Sebastian Stan could be everything Chris has ever wanted. _Is_ everything Chris has wanted: intelligent, thoughtful, ridiculous, playful, mischievous, and sweet. Generous with words and stories and self. Phenomenal in bed, with just enough sarcasm to tempt a reaction, and also gorgeously uninhibited yielding, trust, and honesty about wants and needs.

Sebastian’s easy to talk to. To share truths with. To believe, when his multilayered comforting voice promises to keep Chris’s own stories safeguarded.

Sebastian’s leaving. Tomorrow. Inescapable as the rain that’s looming. Back to a wider world, a world full of people and places and discoveries. A world in which Sebastian’s good at his job, celebrated, given awards for his writing. And his editor’s asking him to write a book.

Chris suggests a right turn, and another right, to get them closer to less dramatically off-track. Sebastian shoots him a coruscating grin and obeys.

Sebastian has too much to do, too much in his life, to stay. Chris knows that.

This is what they’ll have, last night and tonight, this weekend. He’ll treasure every second, and try to make all the seconds memorable for Sebastian too.

A group of buoyant teenagers clamors past, shouting and racing each other and bouncing off other guests and corn. Chris flings out an arm to shield Sebastian without thinking; Sebastian’s mouth curls into that wonderful banner of a smile, and he steps in for a quick kiss in the wake of the thundering. “Feeling protective?”

“Maybe a little. Can’t have you getting hurt, right?”

“Right,” Sebastian agrees, mock-demure, eyes dancing. “Wouldn’t want me to end up…sore, at all, after my visit…”

Chris starts to answer, pauses, checks Sebastian’s expression: honest amusement, no regret about any lingering reminders of sensation. “Hey, I’m here to take care of all your needs. Full service.”

“Definitely full. Left here, or—”

“Right. I mean yes! Left. Yes left.” He should be able to do this maze blindfolded. Most of the family can. Sebastian’s hand sliding into his is distracting.

“So…left?”

“Right,” Chris says, “as in yes,” and holds his hand as they successfully navigate their way out of the maze.

They explore the shops and craft booths for a while, letting Sebastian do a few quick interviews, gathering quotes. They wander out to the pumpkin fields, walking between rows of orange and gold and green, footfalls hushed and solid on welcoming earth. Sebastian falls in love with a pumpkin that, Chris has to admit, looks like the platonic ideal of pumpkins: curved and medium-tall and flawlessly autumn-colored; he holds it for a picture or two, posing, laughing.

He says no when Chris offers to set it aside for him, though one hand pets the gourd momentarily. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it. It’d have to survive the drive home, and then it’d just sort of sit in my apartment…not like I get trick-or-treaters…it deserves a happier life.”

Chris hoists the pumpkin. Sebastian’s eyes get wide and startled; Chris says, “I’ll bring it back to my place, and it can stay here and, um, be appreciated?” and Sebastian smiles.

Layers linger behind that smile. Chris isn’t sure they’re talking about pumpkins.

He runs over and puts _their_ pumpkin by the path to his front door, before they walk back to the main buildings. It looks good there. Seasonal. Chosen. Desired.

He buys Sebastian some hot cider—extra cinnamon this time, because Sebastian likes spice—and makes sure those writer’s hands’re warm, and gets them good seats to watch the pumpkin catapults.

Gourds fly. Seeds and guts scatter. Homemade launchers hurtle autumn skyward, and occasionally break down, or toss a pumpkin directly at the audience by accident. Height and distance are measured and recorded. Sebastian cheers and takes notes and sips cider, which makes his cheeks pink; there’s a small piece of hay in his hair, and Chris has never wanted to kiss anyone so profoundly because of hay before.

Sebastian does a short interview with the winner, who beams proudly over her devastatingly accurate wooden array. He’s smiling, being charming, asking questions. Chris watches, hands shoved into pockets. He’s not sure what this emotion is. Or emotions plural.

Sebastian fits in here. Part of the farm. So right.

Of course Sebastian fits in here. Sebastian’s a reporter. Good at talking to people, at getting them to talk. Genuine visible interest laces every question, and therefore everyone responds.

It’s a skill. A gift. Sebastian uses it. Which doesn’t mean it isn’t real. It is, and that’s the hell of it: Sebastian can be both sneakily talented at getting people to open up, and _also_ honest about caring about them. A good reporter, in every meaning of the phrase.

Chris shifts weight, moves a foot. A twig crunches under his boot.

His sister Carly materializes from autumn leaves and pie-tasting entries. “How’s it going? Seems like he’s getting a lot of material.”

Chris sighs.

“What? That was a totally innocent question. Not related to his car spending the night here at _all_.”

“Shut up.”

“You said you’d babysit him, not sit on—”

“I _know_.”

She looks at him. At Sebastian. Back at Chris’s expression. “You’ll miss him.”

“I know he’s leaving tomorrow,” Chris says. “He has a job to do.”

“ _And_ you’ll miss him.” She punches him in the shoulder, but with love: a sisterly comfort, a solid reminder of family. “Kinda nice, seeing you so into someone. Even if it doesn’t go anywhere…it’s good. You wanting this. Nothing wrong with that, and it’s been, what, six months since you even—”

“I’ve been on dates!” Chris argues. “I’m not a hermit.”

“Didn’t you go on a date with an actual hermit? That guy who lives halfway up a mountain and carved his own toilet out of—”

“Stop talking now or I’ll tell Mom who ruined the wallpaper in the dining room.”

“That was like twenty years ago. I’m not sure Mom cares. Chris…” She puts her head on one side, evaluating him. Chris knows that look, that expression. He’s seen it on their mother, and occasionally on himself, reading a script or assembling a bookshelf. “You don’t do one-night-stands. You give your heart to people. So you care about him. That’s a _good_ thing.”

“Is it?”

“It is.” They both watch Sebastian for a second; he’s nodding, jotting down a quote, hair bouncing with the motion. His fingers are quick and tanned, gathering notes; his jacket’s casually open, and dirt’s left a scuff on his right boot.

He’s a New York City reporter in a black leather jacket and a stylish striped sweater and tight jeans. He’s doing his job, getting a story.

But he’s also a reporter who doesn’t mind getting dirty, and who’ll run laughing through a corn maze, and who volunteered to help set up signs on the first day Chris ever met him. And he smiles like sunrise and tastes like coffee and cinnamon and cider.

Carly pats Chris’s shoulder, says, “Enjoy yourself,” and heads off to supervise some historical blacksmith demonstrations. The sky shimmers with clouds and anticipation and unfallen rain.

Sebastian bounces back over. “That’ll be fantastic, she was so excited, she’s already thinking about next year’s competition, which is so perfect for a pull quote, and it’ll get people thinking ahead about coming here then!”

Would you come back, Chris doesn’t say. Would you come back next year, next month, next week, even if your story’s done? Would you stay and not leave?

He can’t ask that. This is Sebastian’s job.

He says, “That all sounds great. For your article and for us. You want lunch?”

“Absolutely. I haven’t eaten my way through your menu yet. Recommendations?”

“Classic Oktoberfest? The whole German sausage, potato, onion thing? That one’s popular. And, um, baked apples. In maple cream sauce.” Food. He can talk about food. Promoting their menu. Not getting down on both knees and promising to bring home every pumpkin Sebastian likes, if that’ll make those enthusiastic eyes stay at his side.

“Sounds good.” Sebastian’s eyebrows go up, beckoning Chris into the joke. “And I do like sausage.”

“I like _your_ sausage,” Chris tells him, and Sebastian’s laugh is a splash of sunshine through clouds and cold and tree-branches that stretch to the sky.

After lunch they wander around the seasonal ale and beer tasting, and try out one of the antique cider-presses, and finally chat with a few more guests and staff while exploring the homemade rustic goods in the General Store. The afternoon ebbs and flows; the Festival’s wrapping up, day two dwindling into bonfire smoke and the phantoms of delight. They’ll do it all again next weekend, and then that’ll be it: over for another year. A memory of celebration.

This year, this weekend, won’t ever happen again. Melancholy brushes Chris’s hair like a tumbling leaf; like the leaf, it’s also beautiful. Worth remembering.

Sebastian’s examining a candle shaped like a ghost, with interest. “Kind of appropriate, when you think about it. Melting. Turning into air. The spirit of the candle. It’s supposed to smell like candy corn, but I think that’s just sugar.”

“Sugar and honey?” Chris picks up the next candle-ghost in line. “This one says witch’s brew, so…eye of newt, wing of bat, that sort of scent?”

“Maybe we should find out. Toasted newt totally sets the mood, right?”

Chris points the ghost at him. “Witch!”

Sebastian waves the other ghost back at him. “Double, double, toil and trouble…don’t tell anyone or I’ll have to curse you.”

Chris holds up his own ghost in surrender. “I’ll behave. So I was thinking maybe my mom’s autumn stew, for dinner? I can do that one, and it doesn’t take that long.”

“Sure.” Sebastian sets down the ghost; his fingers line it up neatly with the rest, and nudge it to be perfect. “I should actually…well, first I should run back to my hotel. Get my stuff. I might need to do some work. Type up some notes, do some writing. Not too much, just while I’m thinking of some things.”

“So I get to feed you and keep you company, and then maybe…sausage again…after? Works for me.”

Sebastian looks up from tidying ghosts; a tension Chris has only just noticed eases from his shoulders, and he says, “Me too. This one says it’s pumpkin-pie scented, so do you think ghosts like pie?”

Sebastian does go, after some more merriment over scarecrow wall art and plush black cats wearing purple witch’s hats. His car vanishes into the line of departing guests; Chris watches, leaning on the gate. Sebastian’s driving away, but—unlike the rest—will be coming back. Coming home.

He watches until he can’t see the red of Sebastian’s rental, and then runs back to the shop. He’s got some candles to buy.

He and Sebastian’ve exchanged phone numbers already, in one of the emails arranging the visit, and he’s not exactly surprised when the text pops up while he’s chopping carrots. Sebastian’s on the way over, a little faster than Chris expected but logical given how close his hotel is. He also asks if there’s anything he can pick up or bring, to which Chris texts back _Just your sausage_ and a picture of the hot Italian version that’s going in the stew.

Sebastian promptly sends him a picture. A selfie, recent but not too recent given that Sebastian’s hair’s long enough to have been pulled into a small bun. Sebastian’s mouth’s wide open, and his hand’s holding the largest hot dog Chris has ever seen. _Thought you should know how much I enjoyed the Wiener Festival last year._

_Think I know how much you enjoy wieners, sweetheart._

_I definitely enjoy yours. Should be there in five minutes._ Sebastian tosses in the smiling ghost emoji for good measure.

Chris sends _You can park in the back, just drive up the lane, come right over_ plus a grinning jack-o-lantern, and gets back to stew assembly. This one’s a straightforward recipe; it just needs some simmering time.

The scents of oregano, thyme, and heat gather around him. The wind blows, clouds shouldering each other aside to get to the front. A few scattered raindrops pelt the windows.

Chris glances around the room—everything set up, from Dodger dozing on the sofa with paws in the air to the surprises waiting—and nods at it all, and throws a parsnip into the pot. Sebastian’s coming over, and the world’s full of hearty stew and cozy blankets, and right now that’s all that matters. Here and now and this: not the morning, not the future.

He ends up humming, slicing a second parsnip: snatches of old Disney tunes, nostalgic classics. Love songs.

Sebastian’s car in fact arrives in just about four minutes; Chris hears the sound in the lane, and bolts over to open the door. Sebastian's chosen pumpkin beams orange from the front step as he does.

The rain hasn’t entirely made up its mind yet and keeps erupting in irregular bursts, and it patters in to be a backdrop as Sebastian runs up to him. A few drops land in fluffy dark hair and become decorations, flecks of silver, a crown. “Surprise, I’m back.”

“Not a surprise if I’m expecting you.” He dives in for a kiss, right there in the doorway, tasting rain and autumn and Sebastian’s delicious mouth. “Come on in.”

Sebastian does, both bags—one dark blue and practical, one obviously containing his laptop—swinging from his shoulder. And then stops, a couple of steps into the room. “You bought them!”

“Just for you.”

The candle-ghosts, scattered around the room, flicker in approval. They’d all turned out to smell more or less like sugar, in varieties of caramel and cinnamon and berry and woods; Chris is grateful for that, since he’s lit all four at once.

“I love them,” Sebastian announces. “And they’re happy. Fulfilling their purpose. Chris—you didn’t have to—”

“Like you said,” Chris tells him, “they should get to, y’know, be what they’re meant to be. Can I get that?”

He means the bags; Sebastian nods, but then fishes something out, handing it over. “Here. I know you said not to bother, but I hate showing up emptyhanded. It’s just from the hotel gift shop, and you’ve probably tried it, but at least it’s local?”

The bottle’s a good small-batch porter, barrel-aged and infused with cinnamon and maple syrup; Chris has indeed had it, and approves. “I’ve been to their brewery. Everything’s good, pretty much. I like this one."

“Good,” Sebastian says, and something in his tone makes Chris’s eyebrows go up.

He says, testing a theory, “Good choice, Sebastian,” and Sebastian’s cheeks get a little pink and he ducks his head, hand rubbing at the back of his neck, and Chris thinks: yes. Good.

He reaches over. Brushes fingertips against that same spot, the nape of Sebastian’s neck. Sebastian breathes in, not quite a gasp but a catch of breath, and then makes an expression someplace between embarrassment and laughter. “Okay, yeah, point made, that works, thanks.”

“Fun for me too,” Chris concurs, and sets Sebastian’s laptop bag on a chair for now, and tosses the other one into the bedroom. “Open this while I throw some apples and nuts into a salad?”

“Opening beer I can handle.” Sebastian falls into step with him, moving to the kitchen. Today’s socks—he’s changed them, then, after running around in dirt and a corn maze—are blue, with tiny gold animals that look like dragons; he shrugs off his jacket and hangs it carefully on a peg, and shoves up his sleeves, baring tanned smooth arms below blue-and-white stripes. Chris wants to lick him all over.

He says, “I like your socks.”

“They’re dragons,” Sebastian says. “I’m kind of a fantasy nerd. You should know that about me. Very important. Magic and direwolves and once upon a time and fairytales.”

“So we’re having a Disney fairytale movie date later, then.”

Sebastian sings the opening of “Kiss the Girl” at him, not terribly on-key but also not trying hard. Chris, exploding with delight, kisses him. As requested.

They open seasonal porter. They find salad components. Chris feeds Sebastian an apple slice; Sebastian eats it from his hand and then licks Chris’s fingers after, smiling.

The candle-ghosts dance with glee. The spices and scents of stew wreathe around and join sugary flames, everybody finding a place.

Sebastian falls in love at the first bite, and says so. Chris points out that he can’t really take the credit, it’s his mom’s recipe, he’s just following directions. Sebastian says that he’s still the one who made it, and devours more. Chris gives in, mostly because he likes watching Sebastian adore something he’s made, and picks up more bread.

They talk about anything, everything, easily. Favorite Disney movies. Favorite books. Family. Sebastian laughs at embarrassing stories about Scott, and admits to wishing he’d had a sibling; he talks about his mother, and Chris can hear how much he loves her, clear as gold. He also says, “Without her I wouldn’t be here, I mean in America,” and then, at Chris’s silent question, explains, a little hesitantly.

Chris listens, forgets to breathe—that childhood, getting out of Communist Romania, finding new countries and new lives—and just reaches over to take Sebastian’s hand, hoping that says enough.

“I’m happy.” Sebastian laces fingers into Chris’s. “I am. I’ve got a life I love, a job I love—I’ve been lucky. I know I have.”

“Are you?” Chris says. “Happy.”

“I am. Most of the time. I just—no, I’m not complaining. I’m happy right now. Here. With you touching me.” His eyes meet Chris’s. “And with your sausage.”

Chris laughs, but squeezes Sebastian’s hand. Not letting go.

Food devoured, leftovers put away, dishes done, Dodger fed and thoroughly played with—it’d been a hard-fought tug-of-war—he asks, “Where do you need to be? To do some more award-winning writing, I mean. If you want privacy I can go hide in the bedroom.”

“Out here’s fine. I’m pretty used to writing anywhere, honestly.” Sebastian collects his laptop and journal. “I’ll just borrow your table.” Settling in, he might’ve always been here, part of the routine. After-dinner composition, sock-feet and a striped sweater, laptop open and one hand running through his hair.

Chris wants that routine. Chris wants that routine so badly he can see it, can feel it, can taste it: this, every day, forever. The picture of it skewers him through the chest and leaves him airless.

He says, “If you don’t mind me being here, I’ll hang out and read?” while each heartbeat quivers and flutters and tries to give Sebastian all of itself.

“I like company. I like you. It’ll just be an hour or so.”

“I’ll come over there and kiss you when you’re done,” Chris offers, and scoops up his current book—a biography of Sally Ride—and flops down on his couch. Dodger hops up for cuddling, and the rain chooses that moment to leap downward passionately, and candlelight glows from shelves and tables.

Sebastian’s typing—the crafting of notes, sentences, more celebrated prose—adds quiet tapping sound to the world, blending with the rain. Chris loves hearing it.

At around the half-hour point, as the storm billows and thunder crashes, he gets up. Heads to the kitchen. A while after that, wanders over, mug in hand. Sets it down a neatly judged distance from the laptop.

Sebastian looks up, looks at the mug—hot cocoa, with cinnamon and spice because Sebastian likes spice and a mountain of whipped cream and some chocolate shavings because Chris hadn’t been able to resist—and smiles. When he takes a sip he gets whipped cream on his nose, and Chris would die for him.

He collects his own mug and takes it back to the couch. And if he’s smiling into it, his hot cocoa doesn’t mind.

Sebastian finishes both typing and cocoa exactly on time, precisely the hour he’d said; he leans back and exhales and runs both hands through his hair. Chris puts down Sally Ride and hops up. Dodger rolls into the space left by his body and huffs in puppy contentment. “All good?”

“Mmm. Charles—my editor—is asking about the book again. I don’t know what to tell him. But I made a decent start on your story.” Sebastian tips his head back as Chris comes to stand behind him. “I like it so far.”

“It’ll be brilliant. Like I said, I’ve read your stuff, at least some. You’re an awesome writer.” Chris rests hands on his shoulders, kneading. Then slides one hand over to caress Sebastian’s neck, to feel the motion of a swallow. Sebastian doesn’t protest, only closes his eyes: throat graceful and vulnerable under Chris’s hand.

Chris manages, voice rough, “Want me to distract you from your editor? Reward you for writing words you like?”

Thunder rumbles, and rain drums out a melody. The evening sings.

“Yes.” Sebastian opens both eyes. “Please.”

“My sweet boy,” Chris says, and Sebastian breathes out, exhaling weight, letting go: giving himself over. He turns his head to nuzzle a kiss against Chris’s arm, submissive and trusting; Chris’s heart wants to wrap itself around him and never let him feel cold.

They move to the bedroom leisurely, trading kisses and touches along the way. Sebastian’s quietly visibly happy, letting Chris direct him and guide him and peel off his clothing. Chris pays some attention to every inch of revealed skin that he can reach, marveling at it all.

With them both naked, he puts a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder; Sebastian gets the message and drops to both knees, a fluid movement, eager and natural. He kisses Chris’s thigh, then the tip of Chris’s cock, looking up. The head presses against his lips, red and fat and blunt over his mouth.

“Yes.” Chris puts a hand in Sebastian’s hair. Firm, though not pulling: only an assertion of their respective roles. “Go on.”

Sebastian does, instantly, as if he’s been craving the weight of Chris’s cock in his mouth, into his throat. He licks and sucks, earnest and needy, and makes Chris’s spine and balls tingle with sensation. He eases back for a breath, and flicks his tongue along the ridge, the spot under the head, the slit: tasting Chris all over.

Chris lets out a wordless rumble. Tightens his grip on soft dark waves. Thrusts, interrupting the teasing. Rough and fast and all the way down.

Sebastian moans around his shaft. The vibrations force a groan out of Chris’s chest, matching.

He fucks Sebastian’s pretty mouth, in and out, rough and dominant. Sebastian’s lips get more pink and shiny, chin wet from drool and Chris’s arousal, cheek wet after Chris pulls out and slaps his cock against Sebastian’s face. Sebastian just moans some more, blissful and surrendered, and opens his mouth obediently for more.

Sebastian’s lovely cock is also upright and hard and leaking, Chris observes: dripping and smearing arousal all over his own stomach. Sebastian’s nipples are tight little pebbles, and his back arches as Chris fucks his throat, pushing all the way down, all the way to the hilt.

Chris holds him there. Hand at the back of his head. Keeping him in place. Sebastian’s eyes widen, and his throat works—he can’t breathe much, if at all, like this—but then he seems to soften all over, yielding, gaze going silvery and unfocused with pleasure.

“Mine,” Chris reinforces. “Mine to use. You asked me to, remember? Use me, you said. And I want to.” He touches Sebastian’s throat with the other hand, makes him feel it there too, inside and out. Sebastian’s hips jerk, cock pushing futilely into the air.

Chris murmurs, “So sweet, asking for that. So good, telling me what you need. My good boy, Sebastian.” Sebastian’s hips rock again, and his body shudders, craving air now, involuntary twitches but no true protest yet. Chris says gently, “I want to give you everything you need,” and lets him up.

Sebastian gasps in air—it’s a sound of arousal, though, audible and visible in his face—and gets a hand around his own cock and squeezes hard, enough that he cries out; he sags down onto Chris’s rug, trembling.

Chris bends down. Cups Sebastian’s messy cheek. “You almost came, didn’t you, sweetheart? From that, from knowing how much you’re mine…but you didn’t, did you? You didn’t want to?”

“God…” Sebastian’s voice shakes. “No, I—I don’t know. I want—you didn’t say to, and—but I could’ve, Chris, I need…”

Chris eases him up off the floor, tender, steadying Sebastian and Chris’s own heart. Sebastian’s wobbly, needing and wanting support, wanting to be cuddled into Chris’s muscles. Chris’s muscles could do that for days. Years. Decades. A lifetime, maybe.

He ignores his own arousal for a second or two. He wants—fuck, he wants—but Sebastian feeling good’s more important. And the sheets agree, as he sets Sebastian down among them.

Chris sits down with him, and runs hands over him: shoulders, hips, long legs. And then leans down and nibbles Sebastian’s ear, and whispers, “That was okay, right?”

“Yeah.” Sebastian’s still getting breath back, but he grins. “You’d’ve let me up if I seriously tried to make you…know you would, if I needed it. Future reference, though…hand signals, maybe…” He taps Chris’s arm: three times, fast. “In case I need you to stop. I liked that, though. You’re good.”

“Good.” Chris bites his collarbone, not hard. “How sore’re you?”

“Um…a little? Not too bad.”

“How do you feel about me, um, using you in kind of a different way?” He trails a finger along the line of Sebastian’s cock, enjoying velvet skin and rigid arousal and sticky-slick evidence of need. “Like, me getting on top of this and riding it, while you lie there and you don’t come, not until I say you can?”

“Jesus,” Sebastian says, eyes wide, watching Chris’s hand on himself. “Yes, please.”

“So good,” Chris says, “saying yes to me,” and catches Sebastian’s blush. “You seriously like that, don’t you?”

“I don’t even know why.” Sebastian drapes an arm over his face, but peeks out from under. “It just…does something, in my head.”

“I like doing things with your head.” Chris taps him once, an illustration: right over Sebastian’s steadily leaking slit, and not too gently, either.

Sebastian promptly moves the arm. He’s smiling, if a little pink-cheeked from the admission. “I might accidentally come if you do that again.”

“You won’t. Because this is mine, and I get to decide what you do with it.” He gives Sebastian’s cock a purposefully slow stroke, grip tight, squeezing the shaft. Sebastian’s mouth falls open, soundless; more drops appear, liquid forced out of the slit.

Chris says, “ _My_ Sebastian,” and releases him. “No moving, okay? Be good.”

“I am,” Sebastian moans. “I am, Chris, for you, please…”

Chris grabs a condom and lube—he’d set some supplies out earlier too—and lunges back over. Pauses, kneeling over Sebastian’s face. “Can I borrow your hand? And your mouth.”

Sebastian’s surprise turns to anticipation, getting it. “Yes, Chris.” And he gets his talented writer’s fingers all slick with lube, and reaches up as Chris kneels above him, as Chris takes his own cock and shoves it back into Sebastian’s mouth.

Sebastian’s fingers are skillful and slippery, and do an excellent job of caressing and stretching and opening Chris up, slipping into Chris’s ass and readying his body, impressively so for someone also busy devotedly sucking Chris’s cock. Chris pushes forward and in and watches his length and girth disappear into Sebastian’s mouth, down his throat; the sight’s almost enough to make him finish on the spot.

He has to stop moving. Deep breaths. Self-control.

Speaking of breathing. He’s got his cock down Sebastian’s throat, himself on top and in charge, buried as deep as he can go. Sebastian can’t move much, like this. Which he’s said he likes—not being in control—so that’s perfect, especially as those pale winter-sky eyes get wider and then more dreamy, lost in the sensations of submission and capitulation.

Sebastian’s body trembles and eases, peaceful now, simply being and feeling and getting fucked. He’ll breathe when Chris lets him, or when he asks to be let up.

Chris won’t hurt him, will never hurt him, will never betray that trust. So he doesn’t push. Only watches Sebastian’s expression, judges timing, and draws back.

He lets his cock rest over Sebastian’s mouth, though. Heavy and wet and dark with desire, the weight of it lies against Sebastian’s face, obscene and glorious.

Sebastian breathes, in and out; his eyelashes flutter. He gazes up at Chris as if seeing a treasure; he murmurs, “God yes, Chris…yours, all yours, so fucking yours…” His voice is ragged, conquered, overrun, but he’s smiling.

“Yeah,” Chris whispers, rough and awed and ridiculously adoring, “so I’m gonna use that pretty dick of yours, okay? Just the way I want to.”

“Please,” Sebastian begs, thighs shifting, spreading, squirming against Chris’s bed. Framed by creamy sheets, he’s stunning: luscious and filthy and magical.

“You don’t move. And you don’t come until I say you can.”

Sebastian lets out a plaintive tiny noise but nods, so they’re awesome. Chris grabs the condom, gets it on him—a little awkward, but successful, and Sebastian’s not coherent enough to be sarcastic about it, looks like—and positions himself. Holds Sebastian’s gaze, and sinks down.

Christ. So good. So big—Sebastian’s not as thick as Chris but almost as long and so _hard_ —and Chris’s body hasn’t done this for a while, but the burn is amazing, the stretch is amazing, the feeling of something large and hot filling him up is amazing. He hears himself groan; he pushes all the way down, taking Sebastian inside himself.

Sebastian’s breathing in soft quick pants, eyes and mouth wide, looking up at Chris atop him. He hasn’t moved or stirred otherwise, being good, though his hands are clutching Chris’s sheets desperately.

“You feel so good, sweet boy,” Chris tells him, and moves: shifting, lifting, finding the angle that drives hardness just right inside him, sending off showers of sparks. “Oh, fuck… _so_ fucking good. Feels good for you, too, doesn’t it…watching me getting off on you, using your sweet little cock, while you just lie there and take it, because you’re being good for me…”

Sebastian actually cries out, hips snapping up before he remembers and stops himself. He _is_ crying, a little; Chris hesitates, and leans down, getting closer. “Still okay? Everything all right?”

Sebastian nods but doesn’t say anything. Chris strokes tear-tracks, clear and glinting, from his cheek. “Maybe too much? You want me to do something else?”

“No,” Sebastian whispers. “Just…it’s so much. I need…I need you to…I want to feel you…”

“You want me to come like this, using you, and then we’ll let you come?” He drops a kiss on Sebastian’s nose; Sebastian nods again.

“Okay,” Chris says, “okay, here,” and sits up again, back to riding Sebastian’s dick, right where he wants to be; and grabs Sebastian’s hand. “You can feel this too.”

He wraps Sebastian’s hand around his cock, under his own. His cock pulses, dripping; he’s already slick from Sebastian’s mouth, and they both moan as Chris uses Sebastian’s hand to stroke himself.

“Like this,” Chris gets out, “like this, oh, fuck, Seb—so _good_ ,” and he’s fucking himself on Sebastian’s cock and working Sebastian’s hand over his own, and he can’t even think, can’t talk, hips moving faster and faster, and the heat builds and builds and crests—

He hears himself groan. He sees himself, dimly, through ecstasy: coming all over Sebastian’s stomach and chest and throat and even face, splashes landing as far up as his mouth, his cheek. The sight sets off another shockwave, or maybe just more of the first: pure crystalline shattering release.

Sebastian’s quivering beneath him, hips making small frantic motions, eyes pleading. Chris pants, “Go on—come for me, come inside me, go on, sweet boy—come in me, you’ve earned it, you can have it, you were so good, Sebastian,” and Sebastian’s breath catches and his body stiffens and he’s coming, shuddering and shaking all over, gaze faraway and dazed by rapture.

Chris kisses him in the wake of it, not caring about smeared fluids or sweat and exhaustion. Exhilaration thrums inside his body, in the places where they’ve come together.

He moves enough to handle the condom and disposal of it, and then dives back in. Sebastian’s awake enough to be watching him, fuzzily; Sebastian smiles when Chris says, “More? Not too much, but maybe you could use a little taking care of, after that?” and that smile and small nod mean yes. So, then. More.

He plays with Sebastian’s body, lube and his fingers and Sebastian’s pretty pink winking hole, which has been kind of neglected. The muscle flutters at him, begging for attention. Sebastian whimpers but spreads his legs even more, so Chris pushes two fingers inside him, watching them glide, watching Sebastian’s body take them so readily.

He whispers, “I know you need this, sweetheart, you need something inside you, just a little, just enough to fill you up, I know you’re tired, but you told me you love feeling it, so we’re gonna give you what you need, just enough…” and crooks his fingers and strokes and rubs at that spot.

Sebastian sobs and twitches, head rolling blindly. His mouth falls open; his spent cock flops against his thigh.

“Come on,” Chris coaxes, fingers moving faster, rougher, working inside him. “One more, nice and easy, sweetheart, just let it happen, let go…that’s right, just like that…you feel that, my fingers making you feel so good? Go ahead, sweet boy, come on my fingers, just let go and let it out, the way you need to when you’re getting fucked so well…”

Sebastian’s eyes are open but completely lost to ecstasy now, submerged in the words and the feelings and the motion of Chris’s hand. His mouth’s slack and wet at the corners, and his body shudders all over, a rippling spasm.

“Such a good boy,” Chris whispers, “my Sebastian,” and Sebastian’s muscles convulse and clench helplessly around his fingers, and Sebastian’s mouth makes a low broken grunting sound, sloppy with drool and the smudge of Chris’s dick on his cheek from earlier, and he comes on Chris’s fingers, twitching and jerking against the sheets.

It’s nearly a dry orgasm, not much left. Sebastian’s cock spurts weakly over his own thigh, and when Chris reaches over to fondle him with the other hand, Sebastian sobs, a foot kicking. A few drops of clear thin fluid dribble out, and Sebastian goes almost limp, unmoving except for the tremors of aftershocks. His expression is far-off, transported, luminous.

Chris slips fingers out of him and cleans up some lube and stickiness, the spill of a wrenching climax; he cleans Sebastian’s lax mouth, tenderly. He cradles Sebastian close, rests atop him, soothes him and keeps him safe and secure with words and body weight. Sebastian cries a little more, mostly from intensity, Chris guesses; Sebastian also clings to him, pliant and tactile.

Chris wants to be his anchor. Needs to be his anchor: needs that with a sudden intensity that makes his heart pound and his pulse jump. He needs Sebastian. He needs to hold onto Sebastian. He needs to kiss Sebastian everywhere and make sure Sebastian’s okay and keep Sebastian warm. All of that, urgently so.

Sebastian resurfaces gradually and blinks at him, owl-eyed, astonished. “…holy fuck, Chris.”

“Um…good?”

“Fuck yes. I haven’t done that…the first part…much. It was fucking _incredible_. And then the rest, I can't even, god, _yes_. You—” Sebastian stops, laughs, shakes his head, laughs some more. “God. I feel so—like my head is all—no, all of me is just…”

“Happy?” Chris tries. He is, in a bittersweet aching way. So good, so right. Such a perfect memory. For when Sebastian leaves.

“Happy. Weightless. Sparkly.” Sebastian flops a hand around, lets it fall onto Chris’s back. “Fucking…what’d you even _do_ to me? I feel like I’ve had all your hard cider and also just run a marathon and then had, well, the best sex of my fucking _life_. I never want to move again, except I also want to have sex with you, like, forever more times.”

Chris snorts. Runs a hand through Sebastian’s hair. Can’t say what that word, that casually tossed out forever, has done to his heart. “So that was good, then.”

“Fucking _genius_.” Sebastian sobers, or makes himself more sober, through post-scene endorphin-laced giddiness. He strokes hands over Chris, in turn: surprisingly gentle. “Good for you, though? We’ve been talking about me.”

“Yeah.” Chris drops his head to nibble at Sebastian’s collarbone, at the line of his throat: hiding his own expression. But Sebastian’s rubbing his back and waiting for more, honest and kind and generous; Chris owes him that in turn.

He looks up, meets that concerned gaze. “Perfect. Like…you said incredible. That. For me too.”

Sebastian smiles up at him, holds him together, and answers, “Good, then, we’re both pretty incredible,” and Chris has to laugh.

From the other room the scents of candle-ghosts drift in: sugared, ephemeral, seasonal, and dwindling. And Sebastian’s warm and pleased against him, beneath him, one leg tangling itself into Chris’s. Fulfilled, pun about fullness intended. Thoroughly taken care of. Well-loved.

They get cleaned up in the shower, touching each other in all sorts of ways. Hands trailing over hips and waists. Chris’s arms around Sebastian. Head-tips that turn into kisses. Sebastian’s obviously worn out but affectionate, wanting to be held and touched in the wake of fading coruscating submissive headspace. Chris wants to hold and touch him too, so that works just right.

They work, just right. Together.

It’s still early, so they snuggle up under blankets and watch some classic _Cosmos_ episodes, Carl Sagan extolling the wonders of the universe. Sebastian muses out loud about what exploration and interstellar tourism would look like, travel reporters writing stories that’d invite people to visit new planets and galaxies. Chris jumps into the discussion with glee, though it tears the crack in his heart an inch wider. Sebastian loves his job, in space or here on Earth; that much is clear.

They get ready for bed together, domestic as an everyday routine. Sebastian kisses him with a toothpaste-flavored grin. Chris laughs and pulls him in close and then smacks him on the ass just because.

Sebastian bats eyelashes at him. “Yes, please, thank you, sir.”

Chris snickers at the exaggeration—Sebastian’s being maybe more than half sarcastic, though the underlying current is appreciative—and retorts, “You love it.”

“I do.” Sebastian hesitates as if about to say something else, some other words. The bathroom light catches in his hair, paints honey over his cheekbone.

In the end he only smiles and takes Chris’s hand. They climb into bed together.

They settle into each other, into the night, naked.

Chris folds an arm around him, feels their breathing settle too, and knows that neither of them’s asleep. He also knows that neither of them has mentioned Sebastian leaving in the morning, though of course that’s the plan, that’s been the plan, that was always the schedule.

Sebastian’s here for two nights. For the festival. Then gone. Turning in his story. Off to New York again, or wherever they’ll send him. Paris. Tokyo. Cairo. Prague.

Nighttime shapes, familiar bedroom shapes, drape the bedroom in indigo and onyx serenity. Dodger’s stretched out near the end of the bed, a sleeping puppy-weight against Chris’s right foot. Rain purrs over leaves and thirsty ground, outside.

The world’s quiet and tranquil and undemanding, for this single simple moment of time.

Sebastian says, hushed but coherent, not asleep, “Dublin.”

They’re thinking the same thing, then. Not a surprise. “When?”

“Just over a month. I’m supposed to get there the first week of December, covering holiday events at the castle and everything.” Sebastian breathes out, an exhale over Chris’s chest. His head’s pillowed on Chris’s shoulder. “I’ve got about a week to get this article in, first. And Charles wants me to come in and talk, back in New York.”

“Not about—um—you know, what we—”

“Me sleeping with a sort of subject? No. Well, yeah, probably, a little, it’s not the most professional, and he totally guessed I met someone. Apparently all my replies to him sounded way too happy.”

“I like you being happy,” Chris says, and means it. “You won’t be in trouble for—”

“Not much. You’re not exactly my subject, and I’ve done a lot of other interviews and we’ll have a lot of perspectives. And people expect me to care about the places I’m writing about. I try to be fair, y’know, accurate, but I get involved. I’m not detached.”

“Makes sense.”

“It’s about the book project, I think. He totally wants it to happen.”

“Do you?”

“I might.” Sebastian traces a shape over Chris’s stomach: abstract, absentminded, nothing in particular. “I might.”

“Dublin,” Chris says. “Ireland.”

“Ireland. In a month. Well, a little more than a month.”

“Bet it’ll be spectacular. Christmas, a castle, all of that.”

“Yeah.”

They’re quiet again for a while.

Sebastian drapes his arm over Chris’s waist as if wanting to keep one or both of them in place. Chris tips his head to rest against Sebastian’s, feeling dark hair brush along his face.

He says, as if he’s always planned to tell Sebastian this, as if the words have been inevitable, “I just got so tired. So anxious, all the time. Performing constantly. Even when you’re not on set, not making a movie…it’s still a show, y’know? Hollywood. Every minute, every hour.”

Sebastian shifts, meets his eyes, holds him steady. Doesn’t interrupt, but nods, understanding.

“I just started coming apart,” Chris confesses to him, in the dark with him, being held by him. “Worrying too much about being a disappointment, not being what people expected…and I was doing okay, I was working, getting roles, but…it was always the same kind of role, you know? Like everyone had this picture of me, teen movie star, this kid who was only good at comedy or action, all that physical stuff, and I couldn’t be anything else no matter how hard I tried, because that was the person everyone wanted me to be…it’s not even that I didn’t like it. I did fucking like it. At the start. Or like…it was like…only liking half of me. I don’t know.”

“Like you’re that person sometimes,” Sebastian says, “the person who likes comedy and action and teenage coming of age movies, but then you want other things too. And you don’t lose that part of you, you can still like those things, but when that’s all anyone ever sees…that’s not enough. It’s not everything you could be. Everything you are.”

“Yeah.” His eyelashes feel damp.

“So you came home. Because that’s where you learned who you were the very first time, growing up. Where you have roots and stories and people who know you.” Sebastian moves a hand; his fingers touch Chris’s face, stroke over Chris’s cheek. “Where you have an adorable dog, and you make the world’s best hot chocolate, and you do whatever you can to help other people.”

“I miss it,” Chris breathes, one last confession. “Sometimes. Not everything—hell, not most of it—but the stories, the connection—when someone, some audience, some fan, liked something I did—I can’t, though. I can’t go back to that. But then I’m here and I’m helping out, and I’m still just…I’m _helping out_ , it’s not like I stayed here on the farm, I left, and then sometimes I fucking wish…”

“You want to be more of yourself. The you who does miss it.” Sebastian doesn’t look away. He’s smiling a little, traced by night and rainlight around closed bedroom shutters: he’s not turning away, not going anywhere in the face of Chris’s avalanche of admission. “You’re still all of that, no matter where you are. You’re who you are. All the parts. And you’re a good person, Chris Evans.”

“I’m—” He stops. Because Sebastian’s right: the person he is, the person who’s tried so hard to be everything other people want—on a movie set or a family farm—is himself.

He wants all those things. He wants stories that reach out and find an audience, and he wants family and deep-rooted anchors.

He likes comedy and Disney movies and terrible puns, and he likes rambling walks through autumn woods and tattoos and philosophical speculation about the universe. He’s bisexual and he’s proud of that.

He’s pretty sure he’s in love with Sebastian Stan. And if he’s honest with himself, there’s no _pretty sure_ about it.

He has a lot of desires. They’re complicated. He’s complicated, and that’s okay.

He’s okay. Or if he’s not, he’s at least working on it. And that’s okay too.

He breathes, astounded, humbled, “Thank you.”

Sebastian shrugs a shoulder. “I know something about travel, and getting lost. And wanting things. But I’m not you, so. You don’t have to listen to me.”

“No,” Chris says. “But—you’re you. And you’re so—you’re _here_ , you’re _with_ me, and I—”

“I am.” Sebastian tightens the arm around him. “And thank _you_.”

“For fucking…dumping my emotions all over you,” Chris says, shaky, happy, wanting to be happy, suddenly lighter and bewildered and annealed and in love.

“For giving me this,” Sebastian corrects. “I wish I could help more. But I’m here now. I’m here with you. And I’m so fucking honored you’d let me share it all.”

“I want,” Chris starts, and then doesn’t say it, can’t say it. Can’t let himself.

Ireland. Travel. An assignment. Sebastian maybe getting scolded for being unprofessional, even if he’s said it’s not a serious problem. “Um. I. I want to make you breakfast. Before you—in the morning. Do you have time?”

“I have time. I don’t have to head out right away.” Sebastian kisses his collarbone, lips a promise over tattoo-ink, across words and a bird’s wing. “I _definitely_ have time for you to cook for me.” Something—some other emotion—flickers through his expressive voice, but Chris can’t place it before Sebastian adds, “And maybe one more round of the best sex ever? I definitely have time for that too.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Chris agrees, “breakfast and you, in bed.”

If that’s what Sebastian wants from him, what Sebastian needs from him—

He’ll do that. He’ll do it all. And he’ll do it with a smile, with joy, with love, because that’s what’s right, that’s what needs to be done: Sebastian isn’t here to stay and Chris can’t ask.

This isn’t about him. This is about Sebastian’s life and career, and so Chris’s heart will just square its shoulders and take the stab-wound.

He tugs the topmost striped blanket up more around Sebastian’s shoulders. Sebastian’s skin’s not even chilly yet, but Chris doesn’t want him to get cold, especially if the morning’s planning to be rain-damp and icy.

Sebastian yawns and nestles into blankets and Chris’s body, trusting and naked. Chris rests their heads together, and listens to the steady rhythm of raindrops, and falls asleep breathing in the scent of his own shampoo in Sebastian’s soft hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where is my autumn-themed (mildly kinky) gay romantic comedy Hallmark movie, universe?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they wake up together, and hold on to each other, until Sebastian has to drive away...or does he...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, fine, one more short sex scene. Just at the beginning of this chapter. :-)

Sebastian wakes up clinging to Chris Evans, because his subconscious is in no way subtle. He doesn’t move, just lets his head rest on Chris’s shoulder, lets his arm and leg wrap around and cuddle into Chris. Chris’s arm’s around him in turn, and Chris’s breath’s warm in his hair.

A heap of blankets lies snug and striped and thick over them both, because Chris has worried about Sebastian getting cold. The air’s definitely cold, that’s tangibly true, but Sebastian himself isn’t. Not here, not like this, not in this moment.

The rain’s paused, at least for now. He can’t hear it. No friendly tapping on old remodeled barn walls or doors or hungry ground. No arguments to be made about storms and not driving anywhere and maybe staying put a little longer.

Sebastian wants to stay. He has to go.

Chris has a life here, a happy one. Family, this house, his mother’s autumn stew, Dodger’s waving tail, no demands of travel and deadlines and audiences. Chris doesn’t want to return to the celebrity life, the public life, the persona he’d left behind.

Sebastian’s life isn’t _entirely_ public, but it’s more so than Chris’s, here. And he’s not sure what home feels like, these days.

That’s a lie. He knows exactly what home feels like. It’s this: waking up in Chris’s arms.

Chris has given him so much. Space to write, home-cooked meals, romantic gestures written in ghost-candle sugar and smoke. Ecstasy that takes him apart and turns him inside out and makes him believe that he can somehow belong to Chris, that Chris loves this as much as he does, that Chris wants to wring peak after peak out of Sebastian’s trembling body and then soothe him after, because Chris wants to take care of him and Sebastian wants to feel small and safe and submissive and cared for. Because they fit.

And Chris has offered him that final gift, last night. A trust to hold and carry. The secret ache of that big compassionate rainbow-laced heart, laid bare and put into Sebastian’s hands. Sebastian could hurt him with it, could make the confession into a story, an exposé, a where-are-they-now breathless gossip piece. People would buy it, would read it; Chris Evans isn’t at the top of the A-list these days, but audiences remember him. There’re Chris Evans fans out there.

Sebastian won’t. Can’t. Could never.

Chris gave him this, and Sebastian’s not worthy of it. Sebastian’s just himself: sometimes clumsy, sometimes dorky, sometimes a fantasy or astronomy nerd, someone who likes people and stories and places. He’s good at his job, but there’re lots of good travel reporters in the world; he’s not anyone special.

But Chris had wanted to trust him, last night. Chris believes in him.

Sebastian won’t betray that.

He swears as much to himself, to the morning, to the pumpkin air. He might be unworthy and he might be the wrong person for Chris to care about, but he’ll never hurt Chris. Not ever. No one will, if Sebastian can help it.

As if hearing this vow, Chris yawns, gets Sebastian’s hair in his mouth, makes a muffled noise of astonishment. Sebastian yelps at the tug; they disentangle themselves, catch each other’s eye, end up laughing.

Chris rolls him over onto his back amid pillows, landing atop him, naked and tattooed and wonderful. Dodger hops off the foot of the bed, lets out a huff of amusement at his people, and flops down on the floor to ignore them and nap some more.

Sebastian lies where he’s been put, lies there with Chris’s weight pinning him, Chris’s morning arousal pushing up against him, Chris’s eyes hot and blue and happy to see him; and he has to reach up to touch, running his hands all over Chris’s arms, biceps, shoulders, back. Everywhere he can reach.

“Mmm,” Chris says. “You like touching me, don’t you?”

“Maybe. Just a little.” They grin at each other; Sebastian admits, “Yeah. I do. Metaphorical sausage for breakfast, we said?”

“Yep. You up for that right now?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You looked kinda…I don’t know. Far away, for a sec. Thinking about something.” Chris strokes hair out of Sebastian’s face, cups his cheek afterward: touch so affectionate that it breaks Sebastian’s heart. It’s a snap right in two, clean and clear and full of pain. “Everything okay?”

“Wonderful,” Sebastian tells him. It’s not a lie. Chris does feel wonderful, and this moment, this one moment, this morning, is one last glimpse of wonder too. “I like waking up with you. Please fuck me until I’m screaming your name.”

Chris’s eyebrows go up. “A challenge, huh? We can do that.”

“Go ahead and do it, then.” Sebastian wriggles under him, deliberately provoking. With a lip-lick.

Chris’s grin gets wider. One large hand grabs Sebastian’s wrists. Pins them to the bed. “Fuck yeah.”

And _fuck yeah_ is the right phrase, as it turns out. Chris’s hands are rough but delicious, implacable and merciless and kind all at once: they tease and pinch and hurt Sebastian’s nipples, they grip and fondle his cock and his balls, they rub at his hole and push inside him once he’s slick enough with lube, and Chris doesn’t let up, an onslaught of sensation when Sebastian’s sensations are already raw and easy and right on the surface, tender as his flayed-open heart.

He begs. He sobs. He squirms helplessly under erotic torment. He starts to cry, messy as relief, while his cock jerks as Chris strokes and slaps it and rubs and pinches the head. He can’t think, and he forgets which way is up and how to control his shaking body and everything except Chris and the overwhelming electric starbursts that make him whimper and his cock drip.

Chris makes him come that way, pain and pleasure interwoven and indistinguishable, hand inside him and hand working his cock and voice demanding Sebastian’s submission, surrender, capitulation to bliss. Sebastian sobs and moans the yes and comes all over himself as ordered, unable to do anything else, completely Chris’s and loving it.

And then, only then, Chris pushes his own enormous cock between Sebastian’s shaking thighs; Chris lifts Sebastian’s limp exhausted legs and pushes them apart, and the condom-sheathed head of his cock shoves up against Sebastian’s hole, loose now from so much splendid use. Sebastian’s crying more, not because it’s too much but because it’s so right and so all-encompassing and he doesn’t want it to end. His body responds, tries to pull Chris in, craves Chris inside him, filling up all his empty places.

Chris stops, not moving. He leans down, getting closer. His thumb swipes over Sebastian’s skin, under Sebastian’s eyelashes. “Seb?”

“Please,” Sebastian whispers. “Please, please…”

“Please what, baby?” Chris cradles Sebastian’s head, gazes right into his eyes, holds him close and secure. “Talk to me, Sebastian.”

“ _Please_ fuck me,” Sebastian breathes, needing, yearning, hurting with the longing of it. “Chris…you…want you…want you in me, want to feel you, please…”

“I want that too.” Chris exhales, touches the corner of Sebastian’s mouth. “Just making sure you’re here with me.”

Sebastian opens his mouth. Takes Chris’s finger in. Sucks, mouths, licks: trying desperately to show Chris how much he wants this, how much he loves this, how much he loves Chris, how much he’ll give Chris, all of himself, his heart, everything.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Chris’s voice is a low rumble, one that Sebastian can feel everyplace they’re touching. “My sweet Sebastian…such a good boy, so good for me…how’d I get so lucky, seriously, I can’t even…god, I need to fuck you. Make you scream, you said—”

He does move, then. Hard, and fast. Thrusting into Sebastian’s body, which gives way and opens up and takes it, takes him. Slamming up against Sebastian’s hips, lifting Sebastian’s legs, shoving them up and back. Sebastian’s nearly bent in half, spread open and vulnerable and being pounded; his first orgasm’s still sticky on his stomach, and his cock bounces, and he’s letting out mindless cries and wails and sobs of pleasure as Chris’s huge rigid length batters his hole and that glowing throbbing spot inside him.

He does scream Chris’s name. He can’t not. His thoughts are full of Chris, his body’s full of Chris, he’s exploding into sugar and firecrackers and shooting stars, and his back arches and he’s crying out and coming and flying apart and dying of delirious dizzy white-hot joy, emptying himself out, spilling everything out as Chris groans his name and stiffens and slams into him one final time, so profoundly deep that Sebastian knows nothing else for a while.

He’s not very coherent, after. Drunk on Chris’s cock, on Chris touching him, Chris filling him up so well, making him come and come, exactly the way he needs. He drifts in and out, dimly aware of Chris murmuring soft words, cleaning him up, offering anchors with slow caresses over his stomach, hip, thighs. He cries a little, and giggles a little, and mumbles Chris’s name, hearing the dazed tipsy sound of his own voice: high on submission and control and Chris, he knows.

Chris stays with him, soothing him, giving him sips of water and a bite or two of what turns out to be, once Sebastian can focus, trail mix. That’s nice. It’s good. Chris’s bed feels good. Sebastian’s toes feel good. His cock’s a little sore, and so’s his hole, but in a very nice way, fluffy and pink.

He says as much. Chris laughs. “Fluffy?”

“Mmm. Don’t critique my words. ’M a writer.”

“Yeah.” Chris feeds him some more, letting Sebastian eat from his hand. “My writer. In my bed. So fucking perfect, Seb—I mean, wow. You—just wow.”

“Yeah,” Sebastian agrees drowsily, “I’m very wow. Hold me tighter. I like feeling you. You’re strong.”

Chris laughs, says, “You are, y’know. Very wow,” and does as asked, arms firm and fierce around him.

They do have to get up eventually, and shower, and feed Dodger, and get dressed.

They do all of that while staying close, trading kisses and touches. They’re both quiet; Sebastian can feel the weight of words not said, of realization sidling in and sticking out porcupine spines. Even Dodger’s quiet, though he looks from Chris to Seb once or twice as if confused or asking a question. They both pat him and scratch him and tell him he’s a good dog, which is true, and he woofs cheerfully, contented.

Sebastian’s feeling excellent in a wrung-out well-pleasured way, and feeling melancholy in another very specific way. He thinks Chris knows, or is maybe feeling something similar, or at least understands. He thinks he can feel it, can see it, in the way Chris grins at him. In the way Chris holds his hand and makes sure he eats an entire omelette and two pieces of toast and even a maple sausage.

The sausage makes him smile, given the joke. Chris is smiling too, across the table, a small sad but happy quirk of his lips.

Sebastian says, “I do appreciate your sausage,” and Chris counters, “Yeah, I know you do, you and the wieners.” His expression’s that of a wounded knight watching his beloved ride away: knowing a quest awaits, knowing he can’t come along.

They clean up the dishes. They sip coffee and tea, because Chris has made both, because Chris remembers. They put off the moment when the words’ll be spoken.

Sebastian’s phone chimes. He ignores it, but it chimes again. It’s not urgent, when he checks it. Charles wanting to set up a lunch for next week. Days and times.

“Work,” Chris says, not a question.

“Yeah.”

“You, um…you’ll have fun. In Dublin.” Chris’s eyes are very earnest. “You always sound like you do. Have fun. In your writing, I mean.”

“I do.” Sebastian looks into his coffee. It has no answers, only dark rich commiseration. “I try to. I do love it.”

“I know.” Chris glances into his own tea, then up. “Everyone knows. Your readers. Why you’re so good. You—you love everything you write about.”

“Chris,” Sebastian says, and then doesn’t know what he can say, what more’s left.

I want to give you everything, he doesn’t say. I want to hold out my heart the same way you have. Except I have, I already have, I want you and I need you and I can’t stay and you love it here and I love you.

He does. He knows it’s true: somewhere between the hayride and the corn maze and the incandescent sex and the morning coffee, he’s fallen in love with Chris Evans. He’s humbled and awed by Chris Evans, by Chris’s willingness to trust him, by Chris’s whole self.

He, Sebastian Stan, loves Chris.

He can’t give it words. Can’t put it out there into the world. Chris doesn’t need that burden. No obligations. Not asking for anything, he thinks again, an echo. Chris said so once before.

“Yeah?” Chris had started to sip tea, but now has paused, waiting.

Expectance hovers delicately in the air. Sebastian feels it. But Chris doesn’t have the same sudden wild fantasy. Chris wouldn’t want that: running out and jumping into the car with him? Leaving with him? Flying off to Ireland with him, spontaneous and unplanned, abandoning the farm and family? No. Of course not.

“I just wanted to tell you,” Sebastian says, “I’ll do a good job on it. This story. This place. I swear.”

Chris’s expression shifts, changes. Sebastian’s not sure of the emotion. “Know you will. I mean…you totally appreciated the corn maze.”

“Hey, I picked apples for you. For this. I did farming. I’m very involved, here.” True, so true, so dangerously close to opening up an artery, a vein, confessions bleeding out when Chris hasn’t asked for them.

“You did farming.” Chris exhales a ghost of a laugh, looks around. “Want to take those candles with you? They’re yours anyway.”

Sebastian accepts two of the four. Chris can keep the others. Some sort of connection, maybe. Even if only in his head. A memory, diaphanous as the flickering ghosts will be as they burn.

The sky’s heavy as wet pewter and as dull, thick and slow with clouds, when they step outside and walk down to Sebastian’s car, by the gate. A few brown branches reach toward the sky. Puddles lurk in the dirt under Sebastian’s boots.

He has Chris’s hand in his. He swings it, not letting go. “I, um. Guess I should.”

“Yeah…it’s gonna start pouring any minute.” Chris hasn’t let go either. “You’ll want to get on the road…hope there’s not much traffic…”

“Maybe if you say so the traffic gods’ll listen.” I love you. Please ask me to stay. Please—

Chris doesn’t, and Sebastian smiles and packs bags away, and then puts both arms around Chris’s neck and kisses him: hot and bright and aching with emotions, pouring heart and soul and heat and gratitude into the meeting of lips and tongues and teasing nips of teeth.

He’ll always be grateful. He’s had this, with Chris. It’s been, in his own words from earlier, a wonder.

He gets into his car. Chris, dressed in casual jeans and a blue-green plaid shirt, takes a step back and leans on the low fence, watching. He’s framed by the Evans Family Farm: not the main buildings, since they’re up behind those, but the orchards, the fields, his own restored house. History. Solid roots. Growing life. His home.

A flash of orange catches Sebastian’s eye, vivid against greyness. His pumpkin, the one he’d declared to be the perfect pumpkin, sits proudly by Chris’s door. Because Chris brought it home for him.

He swallows hard. He shuts the car door.

He reverses, carefully, down the lane. A few scattered raindrops hit his windshield, isolated from cloud-siblings, lonely.

Chris lifts a hand. A wave. Farewell.

Sebastian tries to breathe. His body's suffused by memories of Chris, tangible, undeniable.

It’s happened. It’s over. It’s a story. He can think about it like a story. Like a book—

And then he nearly does cry, or laugh. Because it _is_ a book: the narrative he didn’t know he had, the kind of pensive sorrowful literary memoir that’d turn up in book clubs and on bestseller lists. A travel writer finding a home and losing his heart. Learning what it means to love. And having, inevitably, to move on: sadder, wiser, more experienced. Telling his tale.

He could write it, he could do it, he can even catch the glimpses of half-formed sentences in his head. He knows how it’d go; he knows it’d be good.

He wouldn’t name Chris. Names changed, a _fictionalized_ memoir, of course.

Charles, as his editor and friend, would be thrilled. If Sebastian came to meet him and they had lunch and a yes to this project finally happened. If.

More raindrops whirl in, crashing silver against the glass of his windshield. They slide and fall and get lost.

He can’t write it. He won’t. Even if he can imagine—even if readers would cry and feel and hurt along with him, the joys and the losses—

He can’t.

His vision blurs, unless that’s the rain. Or tears. Or a decision.

He makes the turn out of the private lane, through the main parking lot—empty now, farm closed to visitors today, recovering from the weekend—and out the main gate. He’s a visitor, too, after all.

He doesn’t want to look back. He doesn’t want to look back, but he does, and he can see all the way to the farm, can see Chris leaning on the white lines of the fence, arms crossed…no, not crossed, more as if hugging himself, as if cold…

Sebastian’s heart shouts at him to stop. To turn around and race over and throw himself at Chris and rub heat into freezing bones.

His car slows, not on purpose.

He _can’t_. He can’t turn around—he has obligations, travel, New York and Dublin and the next airport and the next hotel—

He can’t stay, because Chris Evans deserves better, Chris deserves someone who’ll be an anchor and a rock and a protective knitted blanket on an icy night, not Sebastian flitting in and out and losing a scarf in Portland and waking up jetlagged after getting back from Madrid—

But Chris is still watching him. Hasn’t moved or gone inside.

Sebastian’s foot eases more. His rental car drifts up the hill, but only gradually. Rain bursts downward, abrupt and shocking: the storm letting loose. A cloudburst, a thunderclap. Lighting, dazzling and nearby, making him jump.

Chris has bought candles for him and cooked for him. Chris has held out that huge heart laid bare, believing that Sebastian’s deserving of that, of helping to carry all the secrets and all the old years-ago pain. That means something. That has to mean something. That has to mean Chris at least might want—

 _Sebastian_ wants.

Sebastian wants all of this: waking up with Chris, falling asleep with Chris, coming home to autumn stew and a gleeful dog and a collection of books about space and philosophy. He wants Chris’s arms around him, and Chris’s commands and caresses making him fly, and Chris’s booming uncontained laughter at awful puns about corn.

He wants to be there for Chris. To hold Chris in the night, and to swear that Chris is the best person he knows, someone who’s known weariness and self-doubt and who _still_ wants to give himself, to share himself—someone who’ll try, and keep trying, to find himself and to care for other lonely people too.

The car’s barely moving. Sebastian’s foot’s not touching a pedal. The rain’s hammering down now, crashing and colliding with his rental, the dirt lane that’s rapidly turning to mud, the orchards, the world. It drums over automotive metal and glass in sharp fast sleeting spikes.

He wants this so badly—

And he would make it work, he would figure out a way, if there might be even a chance—he would try, he has to try, if Chris could want—Sebastian could try to do all his writing here, could come back whenever he has or could make a chance, if that would be enough, if Chris might think that could be enough—

Chris might not. Might say no. But Sebastian can’t not try. He has to. For himself. For them. Somehow, some way.

His car stops completely, halfway up the small hill.

And then he feels the wheels slide in mud and water; he feels the slip and skid and failed traction. He catches both the wheel and his breath; he halts the car’s motion, and sits still, heart pounding in time with the clamor of the storm.

Chris, he thinks. Chris, please, just let me try, let me try to be enough for you, I’ll give you everything I can—

When he twists around to look through the rear window, he sees Chris. Running through the rain. Running his way.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian just can't make himself drive away. Also, kisses in the rain.

Chris watches Sebastian leave.

He’s not sure he can. The whole time they walk out to Sebastian’s car, the whole time Sebastian holds his hand and doesn’t let go, the way Sebastian smiles at him and kisses him…

How can this be ending? How can this weekend, these few short days and nights, ever be enough?

He kisses Sebastian while his heart breaks, and he puts on a smile because he has to, and he waves goodbye because he has to do that too. The ground’s damp and dull beneath his shoes. The air’s icy. A few spindly skeletal branches bob at the oncoming storm.

He can’t do anything other than smile and wave, because Sebastian can’t stay and Chris isn’t part of that jet-setting eloquent writer’s life. This weekend will have to become a memory: one that’ll keep him warm and make him smile, sometimes, when he sees a pumpkin or lights a ghost-shaped candle.

He’s afraid right now that he’ll also want to cry every one of those times. Big aching sobs. Emotion ripping its way out of his chest. Harrowing heartrending talons and claws. Evisceration.

The red of Sebastian’s rental throws a splash of color against the grey morning like a drop of blood. He lifts a hand, a farewell. Chris tries to smile more. The fence takes some of his weight in support.

Sebastian’s car backs down the lane, bit by bit, careful in mud.

Sebastian’s full of such care. With interview subjects, with articles. With Chris: in the way he’s held Chris and taken Chris’s burdens and heard him and _understood_ , and Chris has never felt so safe and so free with anyone else, not ever, because Sebastian’s not like anyone else ever.

Sebastian loves flavors and spices and warmth. Sebastian throws himself into new experiences with pure delight. Sebastian likes being thoroughly dominated and claimed and also cherished, in bed, which is also everything Chris wants: someone who can take it, someone he can adore and lavish attention on and overwhelm with love, giving them exactly what they need, taking charge and taking care of them and making them feel everything so intensely, until they’re completely lost to pleasure at his hands. Sebastian’s his equal that way, like every other way: from stupid puns about corn to shared excitement over deep space exploration documentaries.

The rain’s begun. Only a few drops so far, but they sting his hands and cheeks like nagging questions.

Sebastian’s car moves through the main parking lot, through empty space. Chris should go over and find his family, in the main house—should help out, commiserate, take a deep breath and exhale on this day free from visitors, before they open again tomorrow, before they face the second and final Festival weekend later…

He can’t make himself stir from the spot.

Sebastian’s car’s not moving fast. Maybe he’s worried about the rain and mud; maybe he’s not used to driving in it. He’s from New York, so he must know about rain to some extent, but that doesn’t mean he’s got any experience with rougher farm roads.

Maybe Sebastian’s driving slowly because he doesn’t want to leave. Maybe he wants to turn around and come back, to let Chris wrap him up in blankets and bring him hot chocolate, and maybe—

What? They could figure something out? They could make it work?

Chris himself is in love. He knows he is. He’ll admit it readily. But that doesn’t mean Sebastian feels anything remotely the same.

But they _could_ make it work.

Chris, leaning hard on his fence, feels his breath catch, his heart jump into his throat.

They could. He’d try. He’d fight for this, for them. If Sebastian could stay here even part of the time, maybe to write his book—or if not, maybe Chris could come to New York, at least. Maybe that’d be okay: he could turn Sebastian’s place there, the one he’s said he doesn’t use enough, into more of a home.

Maybe he could even come along. On trips and explorations. If Sebastian wouldn’t mind.

He pauses to have that thought again, stunned and turning it over, a sharp-edged diamond that might cut but might mean a future.

If Sebastian wouldn’t mind, then—then that’s something they can have together. It’d be right, it feels right: himself at Sebastian’s side, discovering castles in December or beaches in July, wherever Sebastian needs to go; they’d go together. And it’d be _fun_ , the way being with Sebastian is fun: the way familiar candles and pumpkins and hayrides all feel new, seen through shining smoky-blue eyes.

He shoves himself upright, hand on the fence.

He needs to tell Sebastian—needs to ask Sebastian—

Sebastian won’t be in love with him. It’s too fast and too new, and Chris’s own heart might’ve leapt right in with both feet, but that’s unrealistic to expect. He gets that. But if Sebastian indicates that there might be even a chance for that, someday—if Sebastian’ll let him try—

He has to try.

Sebastian’s car’s past the gate and partway up the hill, but has slowed even more. Barely inching along.

Thunder booms. The skies explode. Rains slams down across the world.

And Sebastian’s car slips and slides on the hill, just a fraction but enough to make Chris’s heart hurl itself against his ribcage.

Sebastian _had_ been slowing down. Maybe not feeling good about driving. Maybe he’s not in control of the car—maybe the car itself has broken down, or maybe Sebastian’s not—

Not what?

Not okay? If Sebastian’s hurt—no, no, Sebastian can’t be hurt, not so randomly, so sudden—hurt or worse—

Sebastian _had_ been quiet that morning. Happy, entirely willing to be made love to, but pensive, as if thinking about things. What if that _hadn’t_ been only thinking, but something worse? A building headache or migraine or symptom of something deadly and frightening—and what if—

Chris runs. Through the storm. Through the mud. Heedless of splashes, slips, cracks of lightning. Rain gets into his face, his eyes. It’s hot.

But the car door’s opening, a shock of cherry-red; the door’s opening and Sebastian’s plunging out, running out into the storm, running down the hill to him—alive, alive and quick and rain-drenched and real—

“Chris,” Sebastian’s saying, “ _Chris_ ,” and they crash into each other and collide, and Chris’s arms fly around him, and their mouths find each other with frantic heat.

Chris kisses him in the rain, kisses him without caring about the taste of rain and the drops that sneak in over skin and lips and breathless mouths, kisses him with both hands in Sebastian’s hair and his tongue needing to lick and taste and drink in all of Sebastian, to know they’re both here.

Thunder shouts, a burst of applause. Sebastian makes a soft needy sound and clings to Chris, mouth opening more under the kiss, hands running all over Chris’s arms and then his back, as if making sure this is true. Chris murmurs something—Seb’s name, a growl of want, a syllable of need—in turn and reassures him as best he knows how, with every nibble and taste and caress.

Sebastian shivers against him; Chris pulls back and wraps arms around him. “You’re cold.”

“It’s raining—but, Chris, I—I can’t, I can’t leave, I can’t just go, I want to stay, I want you—” Sebastian’s eyes are bright and his words tumble all over themselves, eager, falling out. “I know it’s too fast, I know you might not want—but I want to try, if you’ll let me try, I can make it work, I want to—”

“But I want you!” He brings up a hand, coaxes sodden hair away from Sebastian’s right eye. They’re standing in mud, and it’s growing worse. “I want _you_ —if you want—wait, hang on, Seb, are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“Am I—” Sebastian’s expression softens, understanding; he turns his head to press a kiss into Chris’s hand. “No. No, I’m fine, I swear. I just couldn’t leave.”

“I don’t want you to,” Chris whispers, and gathers him close again, to hold and marvel at. And then he realizes how soaked Sebastian’s blue sweater is, and swears at himself, and rubs Sebastian’s biceps. “Come on. We need to get you warm.”

“You’re out here in the rain with me!”

“And I can help warm you up.” This gets raised eyebrows from Sebastian plus a speculative grin, waterlogged and cheeky; Chris laughs. “Yeah. That too. But seriously, let me take care of you first, okay?”

“Okay.” Sebastian takes his hand; the agreement’s simple, as if Sebastian knows how shaken Chris’s heart has been, how badly Chris needs to love him right now. “Um…should we move my car? It’s fine, it’s only a lot of mud, it stopped because of me, not anything else.”

“Yeah…we should. I’ll drive.”

Sebastian doesn’t protest this, but does shiver again, which means Chris needs to warm him up as soon as possible. He walks Sebastian back to the car, winces at wetness on seats—Sebastian shrugs; cars can be cleaned—and gets them all back down the hill, through the rain, back to his place. Back home.

Sebastian’s quiet for the short drive, but he’s smiling. Chris is quiet too, mostly because it’s all so immense and maybe really happening and he wants it to happen so desperately. Thunder shouts and cheers above them, exuberant and encouraging.

They grab Sebastian’s two bags and run for the door, dripping. Inside, Sebastian sets down one bag, fumbles his boots off as Chris does the same, and then flings his arms around Chris’s neck. His mouth’s enthusiastic, thrilled, slightly cold; his body’s firm and strong against Chris’s, wet clothes clinging to them both. Dodger jumps down from the sofa and bounds over to wreathe around their legs, adding giddy dog hair to the mix, and then gets distracted by a squeaky toy on the floor.

Chris kisses him right back, drinks him in, gets a hand into his damp hair and winds fingers through tempting strands. Sebastian moans and all but melts into him.

“You like that,” Chris murmurs, and Sebastian nods as much as he can while being held. “Good,” Chris tells him, “because I like it too, oh, hell, Sebastian—I love you. I’m fucking in love with you. I’m—I just said that out loud. While you’re cold and wet and—fuck, Seb, sorry, never mind, we need to warm you up before I say stupid shit out loud, sorry again.”

“You love me.” Sebastian’s eyes are enormous. A raindrop’s caught in his eyebrow, shimmering. “You—you want this. Me.”

“I do.” No going back now. “I want—I know it’s too quick, I know you probably don’t—but if you say yes, if you say I can try to make you happy—”

“Chris.” Sebastian’s shaking his head, and Chris’s stomach plummets; but the motion’s only affection and amazement, dawning recognition, not rejection. And Sebastian’s laughing now, happiness in his face, in his arms around Chris, in the shape of his smile.

He says, “I love you, Chris Evans. I couldn’t drive away. I couldn’t leave you—I was going to come back. I was going to ask _you_ that—if there was any way you’d let me stay, let me try…”

“Oh,” Chris breathes. “Oh. Yes. Sebastian…”

They _can_ do this. They both want this. They can have this.

They’ll need to talk about the how, the practical, the ways to make this work. But not yet, not this second. Not with elation brimming over and exhilaration waging war with aching protectiveness in his chest.

He kisses Sebastian again first. Says yes again first. Says it between kisses, against Sebastian’s lips, promised in a lick and a tease and his tongue claiming Sebastian’s mouth.

He tells Sebastian they should get warm first, should shower, should change. Sebastian says yes without argument, and lets Chris tenderly help him undress, hands stripping rain-drenched and muddy clothing away bit by bit, piece by piece. His skin’s chilly, though lovely and smooth as ever; his gorgeous dick twitches and stirs as Chris touches him, though he’s also clearly cold. He looks down at himself, and then hopefully at Chris; Chris laughs, strokes him—just once, a forecast for later, not yet—and walks him to the shower.

Under the falling drops they’re surrounded and kept secure by water and steam. Sebastian’s skin warms, pinkened by heat. Chris’s chest warms up too.

This _is_ right. This, the two of them, here together. His hands in Sebastian’s hair, his body pressed against Sebastian’s, feeling every inch of him. Their shapes just fit.

After the shower he gets Sebastian bundled into a pair of his own sweatpants, a blue long-sleeved shirt, a blanket; he decides to make hot cocoa, in part for warmth inside too and in part because his hands need to move. They’ve got a lot of nervous energy. Restless with hope.

He tells Sebastian to stay put on the sofa, under blankets, and not move. Sebastian considers this order, and then deliberately sticks a sock-foot—also Chris’s, borrowed, plain but fuzzy and durable navy blue for around the house—out from under folds. Wiggles it at him.

“Oh, really,” Chris says. “Really.”

“You love me.” Sebastian tucks the foot back into oatmeal-colored knit folds, eyes wide and faux-innocent and dancing with happiness. “You said so.”

“I do. Brat.” He swoops in for a kiss. Then goes to accomplish hot sugary comfort beverages. With cinnamon, because Sebastian’s grinning at him, and Sebastian likes spice, and that’s perfect.

Hot chocolate made, he brings it over, sitting down next to Sebastian’s blanket-nest. Sebastian takes a sip, lets out a luscious and utterly distracting moan, and plunges back in for more. Chris forgets to talk, or think, for a second or two.

He scoots closer. Offers an arm. Sebastian promptly tucks himself under it, as if he’s been wanting to do exactly that. Chris tips their heads to meet, and loves the drying ruffle of Sebastian’s hair against his face.

They stay like that for a while, quiet as contentment, surrounded by storms and sweetness.

“So,” Chris starts, finally.

“So.” Sebastian shifts position to look at him, cradling cocoa in both hands. “You’re going to say we should talk. We…probably should.”

“Um. Yeah. There's kind of two parts to it? Like…what we do now…and then, later…”

“I’m sort of hoping that what we do now—well, this afternoon, anyway—includes me.” Sebastian bats eyelashes at him, but in the next second flirtation gives way to seriousness. “But yeah. So I’m in love with you. You’re…in love with me. Which is…what. How. I can’t even—I believe you. I do. But…I mean, wow.”

“Yeah, all of that. Except about you.” He touches Sebastian’s wrist. “You’re like…everything I didn’t know I was missing. Everything gets brighter. When you’re here. The way you dive right in and then share your stories with the world—I love that. I love you.”

“You’re the person I want to share everything with,” Sebastian says, and the words might’ve been teasing or weightless, but they aren’t. They’re clear and sincere and profound and full of Sebastian’s heart, offered up to him.

Chris has to swallow. Hard. A gulp of emotion in his throat.

The storm sings and swirls, waltzing around the house. Drops cling to the windows, trying to see what might come next. Dodger’s snoring now, having wrestled his squeaky toy into submission.

Sebastian goes on, “About what comes next, right now…I don’t have another big assignment until December. Dublin, the one I told you about. Before that it’s all writing. Editing. Charles does want to talk to me, so I should go into the office at some point…back in New York…”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You would?”

“I want to.” He exhales. “I was thinking…watching you leave…I wanted to come with you. I will. New York, Dublin, wherever. If you’d let me.”

Sebastian gazes at him, lips parted, answer arrested there.

“Um,” Chris tries, and takes refuge in a sip of hot chocolate.

“You seriously would.” Sebastian sounds awed. “You’d leave here…your family…to come with me.”

“If you need me to, then yeah. I will.” Chris braces himself. Squares his shoulders. Honesty on display, or he hopes.

He wouldn’t want to leave for good. He’d want to come home. His family, the farm’s community and legacy, this life, this place that’s been such a refuge…

But he’d been honest about missing something, too. A crackle, a spark, a passion. He hadn’t known how badly, until Sebastian.

Sebastian’s everything electric. _All_ the crackle, and spark, and passion.

“I never wanted to ask you for that.” Sebastian bites his lower lip, brief and pensive. Chris wants to kiss the spot, to soothe small marks. “I know how much you love it here. And—the thing is, I think…I think I do too.”

“You…”

“This feels good. All of it. Like I’m where I’m supposed to be.” Sebastian turns the cocoa mug around in his hands, watching it; then meets Chris’s eyes again, direct and certain. “This feels like someplace I could maybe…actually come home to. With you.”

“So we could…sort of…like, I come with you, we go on trips and discover awesome places, and then…we come home again? And you can write about the awesome places from here. Home.” His heart’s in his throat. Scorching as hot cinnamon and chocolate.

Sebastian’s smile’s blinding: made of joy and relief and love. “I like writing here. I like you being with me. I like everything you just said. Yes.”

“So…we can do that?”

“We can.” Sebastian sets down his mug—it’s nearly finished—and holds out both hands. Chris sets down his own, and takes them. Sebastian says again, “We can.”

“Yeah.” Chris squeezes Seb’s hands. They’re nicely warm now, well cared for, and a little bud of pride blooms in Chris’s chest alongside all the love and wonderment. “We really fucking can.”

“And today, tomorrow…the next few weeks, next month…”

“If you need to go back to New York I’ll come with you,” Chris says. “Just not, um, next weekend. Harvest Festival round two. Family. Farm stuff. Any other time, though. I’m all yours.”

“I definitely will need to. For one thing, I’ll run out of clothes.” Sebastian’s fingers curl around Chris’s. “I can manage for another week, if I can do some laundry. Anyway, I love your Harvest Festival. I don’t want to miss the last weekend. Maybe I can add some notes in while I finish working on your story, too.”

“My washing machine’s your washing machine. Do all the laundry you want.” He tugs; Sebastian tumbles easily into his lap, willing and tangled in blankets, dressed in Chris’s clothing. Chris’s entire self adores the sight. “So, okay. You’ll stay, you’ll write genius words, and then we’ll go, and you can meet with your editor, and…maybe grab some clothing…that I can take off of you…”

“Works for me.”

“And you can show me New York, and then we can come home.” He cups Seb’s cheek, loving the way Sebastian leans into the touch, loving that this is real. “And then I’ll come to Dublin with you.”

“And everywhere else. And we’ll come home again, each time.”

“Yeah. You really do want that, don’t you? Me, and you.” He rubs a thumb over Sebastian’s cheekbone, somewhere between reverent and dominant. The emotions are tumultuous and breathless, sweet as Sebastian’s small intake of breath. “You do. So do I.”

“I do. I—” Sebastian laughs, abrupt and luminous. “I had an idea. Earlier. About a story. No, about the book. The memoir thing.”

“The one your editor wants?”

“Exactly. I thought…we could almost be a story. Lonely writer finds love, learns about home and corn mazes and homemade cider, all of that. Except I thought I had to leave, and I couldn’t write it, because…”

“Because it’d hurt too much.” He tries to make sure Sebastian’s seeing the conviction, feeling it in the touch: knowing how much Chris loves him, understanding how fiercely Chris _never_ wants him to be hurt.

“Because it’d hurt, and because I couldn’t hurt you. I’d never use your name, but if you ever read it, if you recognized it…or if other people guessed, and you didn’t want anyone to know…”

“Fuck other people,” Chris informs him, “I don’t care about my reputation, and anything you write’s going to be beautiful,” and kisses him sharply for that.

Sebastian’s laughing more, resurfacing. “Thanks. Right now, though…I thought…maybe I _could_ write it. Still a memoir, it’s what we’ve been talking about, but not sad. Happy. A romance. Because it is. All the places I’ve been, wandering around the world…and finally discovering hayrides and hot chocolate and the man I’m completely fucking in love with. Fictional names, still, if you want. If you’d be okay with it. With me writing it.”

“Yes.” No hesitation at all. None required. “Yes to all of that. Write it here. Write it here with me. Use my name. Tell the world.”

“You…mean that…?”

“I want to be part of your story,” Chris tells him, and Sebastian says, “Oh,” soft and astonished and so audibly happy that Chris has to flip him onto his back on the couch and flop down on top of him, feeling him, adoring him.

“I can do that,” Sebastian announces, legs spreading readily for Chris to move between them, hands busy touching Chris too, every place he can reach. His eyes are very bright, glorious as the rain. “I want to do that—I _want_ to write it, Chris, I can feel it—I can practically _taste_ it—it’s right there, and I can do it, I love you and I love good stories and _yes_ —”

“I like tasting _you_.” He does. “You taste like chocolate.”

“And spice. Which I appreciate.” Sebastian skillfully extricates a long leg from blankets and loops it around Chris’s waist. Thunder rattles the skies, applauding this development. “I appreciate you. And happy endings, and Harvest Festivals, and pumpkins. I love you, you know.”

“I’ll get you all the pumpkins,” Chris says. “As many as you want. Every year. We can decorate with pumpkins. You can write stories about them. I love you, Sebastian. Here, New York, Ireland, anywhere. Wherever we end up going next. I want to go there with you.”

“Yes.” Sebastian leans up to kiss him. It’s a kiss full of sugar and spice and far-flung horizons and possibilities opening wide. “Yes to everything. All of that, all the stories, all the coming home after, with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! This fic's been such fun - thanks for sharing the autumn love with me! <3
> 
> Of course Seb's book is a bestseller - and then there's the television show deal, the one where he and Chris go exploring, discovering places together...Chris rediscovers his love of telling stories on camera, and this is even better because he's not in a role or playing a character, he gets to be himself and he gets to be excited about colorful trees and waterfalls and he gets to do it all with Seb, and anyway they only do like six episodes a year, it's not a big demanding thing...and the audience just adores them and their show, and they get great ratings and reviews, everyone loving their dynamic and their obvious joy about being together...and they always come home to the farm in between trips, and they're _always_ home for the Harvest Festival. (Someday, in a couple of years, that's when Chris will propose; he has a lot of vague thoughts, nothing concrete yet, but maybe a hayride, maybe the corn maze, maybe some hot chocolate or spiced cider...maybe a carved pumpkin, or a series of them, spelling out the question as they walk through the farm or up to their door, letting Seb read them carving by carving until it's all complete, will you marry me, and Chris gets down on one knee...)


End file.
